


The Legend of the Three Telepaths

by Ericine



Category: Babylon 5, Babylon 5 & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst, Character Death, Character Study, Cuddling & Snuggling, Depression, F/F, Fairy Tale Elements, Female Friendship, Femslash, Fix-It, Friendship, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, Identity, Oppression, Romance, Sleepovers, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Telepath War, canon compliant with a twist, love has many forms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2017-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-17 08:24:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 45,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4659570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ericine/pseuds/Ericine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I swear to an unnamed Vorlon, if this story starts with ‘It was the dawn of the Third Age of mankind…’”</p><p>Wars breed stories, stories become legends, legends blend into time. A handful of scholars holds that the telepath fairy tale, which arose during the Telepath War, is based in truth, but no one can know for sure. Still, a version of the legend exists in almost every known culture, an allegory for how love can break the cycle of oppression, the story of a princess fallen into darkness and the warrior and witch who, through their love, bring her back into the light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue (Secret Ceremonials)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mylittleredgirl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mylittleredgirl/gifts), [CrazyTaraWitch](https://archiveofourown.org/users/CrazyTaraWitch/gifts).



> This is also a gift to a bunch of other dear friends who I couldn't tag, mostly people who are responsible for this beginning as a one-shot romance and stretching into a work of indeterminate length that celebrates the amazing female characters on this show and female relationships in general. :)
> 
> Will contain possibly-triggering scenes involving depression and suicidal thoughts. I'll warn about those in the notes for the appropriate chapters.

**_Minbar, 2360_ **

 

Mara kicks the covers off herself. It’s hot, and she’s equal amounts annoyed and embarrassed. It’s not every day she collapses screaming in the middle of all of her friends. “I don’t _want_ a story.” She regrets the outburst as soon as she makes it. Great-Gram may be in a wheelchair, but she doesn’t have to do anything but blink for Mara to be ashamed. “Sorry.” She looks away, and when she looks back, Great-Gram’s brown eyes are kind.

“I know how much it hurts,” she replies. “I took a mind blast around your age. I was a little younger than you, about twelve, and I didn’t know what was happening, of course, which made it a lot scarier. We didn’t have medication for that back then either, but if you want some—”

Mara, annoyed, waves off the suggestion. “I’m sixteen. I’m not a baby.”

Great-Gram nods, and if Mara didn’t feel like tiny galaxies were birthing themselves inside her head right now, she’d think she almost saw _approval_ in Great-Gram’s eyes. That couldn’t be right. “So you think you’re too old for stories too?”

Mara wills herself to be polite. “I’ve just— _heard them all_ before.” It’s another mistake. “I mean—”

“Of course you’ve heard all of them before,” says Great-Gram. “You were a child. We told you children’s stories. You find as you grow up that they get a lot more colorful.”

Mara blinks. “More colorful than war?” She knows that Great-Gram grew up during those times, but she can’t wrap her mind around it completely. For her, Great-Gram’s always been in a mobile chair, always been silver-haired (Great-Gram doesn’t dye her hair, something she explained away one time by saying something about the Minbari—Mara never remembers these things). She tries to picture Great-Gram looking maybe like she did, with long dark hair and awkwardly long limbs.

Mara doesn’t know what she would have done if she’d lived back then, probably cracked under the pressure. She's not the strongest person, evidenced by the fact that it's been half a day since the unceremonious emergence (onslaught) of her telepathic abilities and she's still lying in bed in pain. Her parents have gone to bed, but Great-Gram always keeps weird sleeping hours, given that she's hardly ever on-planet (technically, none of them are on-planet--they've come to Minbar to visit Great-Gram, but Mara's pretty sure that's what Great-Gram considers home, and the rest of her family certainly considers it home enough), even at her age.

“War is hardly one-dimensional,” says Great-Gram. At Mara’s look of confusion, she continues. “It was a scary time, but maybe that’s what makes the good moments stand out the most.”

“Like?”

“Like the Telepath War.”

Mara frowns. “No one likes to talk about that.” Not even Great-Gram, now that she thinks about it. Of course, Great-Gram didn’t really hang out with human telepaths—she was kind of all over the place.

“It wasn’t our finest moment,” says Great-Gram. “People don’t like to talk about times when they were embarrassed.” Mara flushes—embarrassment on top of her embarrassment—and Great-Gram certainly feels that. “But, you can learn from others’ vulnerability.”

“I don’t like being vulnerable,” says Mara quietly.

“I agree,” says Great-Gram. “Still, that was a huge part of the Telepath War. You know that it was love that ended the war, right?”

She knows that it’s going to shake her skull, but Mara laughs anyway. “You’re not talking about that fairy tale. The three telepaths? The fairy princess, the warrior, and the witch?” Great-Gram nods. “I’ve heard that a thousand times—the English, Russian, _and_ Minbari versions. That tale was invented to make little telepaths feel better that their whole families were being blown up.”

“You’ve never wondered how much of that might be true?” asks Great-Gram. “I’d think you’d be at least a little bit curious, especially since I was there. It’s a quite romantic story but also a little stressful. If you don’t feel up to it—”

Great-Gram’s always been able to kick her ass at chess. Mara can’t resist.

“I swear to an _unnamed Vorlon_ , if this story starts with ‘It was the dawn of the Third Age of mankind…’”

Great-Gram smiles faintly. “I can tell that one instead, if you want.” Mara rolls her eyes, and Great-Gram stretches out her hand. “Well, come on. Stories are better with pictures.” Mara takes it and squeezes. She’s always surprised that Great-Gram’s grip’s strength matches her own. “Anyway, I think you’ll like this one. It doesn’t start out in a place of dawn at all. It begins in a place of intense darkness—”

The image that flashes into Mara’s mind is off somehow, like it’s not Great-Gram’s thought, like it was taken from somewhere (someone?) else. It’s still pretty bleak. She tries not to gasp. “No once upon a time?”

Great-Gram laughs. “Sure, why not? You know the beginning anyway.”

“Once upon a time there was a fairy princess who lived in a tall tower?”

“Yes, except she’d had a terrible darkness placed into her, not by any choice of her own, and one day, it took her over and turned her into something else.”

“She died?”

“We all thought she had, but no.”

There’s something tugging at the corner of Mara’s mind, memories of other stories she’s been told, and this is sounding suspiciously familiar. “Did she have a name?”

“Has,” corrects Great-Gram. “And yes. Her name is Talia.”


	2. It's a Battle Cry, It's a Symphony

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warnings for suicide, suicidal thoughts, and depression. And also just general graphic descriptions of pain. Mind prisons suck.

_**Babylon 5, 2259** _

 

The blast knocks Talia asunder. She can feel the exact moment she loses her senses, movement, control.

 _Control_.

There are words that aren’t hers that sound like hers coming out around her mouth, people staring at her like she’s everything they’ve worst feared her to be, and there’s nothing she can do to stop it. It’s hard to even make herself care, really, because she could be dreaming the way that everything’s flowing together and the way that there’s a sharp blinding pain _everywhere_ that she just wants to go away. She’ll do anything to make all of this go away, and she does mean that. She, unlike the people she’s found herself among, is not strong, is not valiant. Her mind is screaming and her voice can’t catch up; everywhere is fire.

This is how she’s going to die, and she accepts it, because in this moment, she has been stripped of everything. There is nothing else of her.

* * *

 

Then, she’s conscious again—just barely. She wasn’t expecting awareness again. She’s supposed to be dead.

And the pain.

It’s not sharp, not the all-encompassing burst that rendered her blessedly unconscious before. She’s sore, seemingly bruised everywhere, and she’s surprised that brings her a short rush of joy. If she hurts, that must mean she has her body back, is lying in a bed somewhere, drugs keeping her pain at bay, but no—she has no limb consciousness.

Pain, however, is in the mind.

This mind isn’t hers anymore. She knows that before she consciously thinks it. _She’s_ in here with her.

 _She_.

 _Control_.

That sends a shock of fear through Talia that she’s too tired to ride all the way through. The pain’s been rising, slowly, a wave of pain, and it’s becoming too much now.

Still, in the middle of the trauma, her heightened senses ( _pain, pain, pain_ ) pick up random details—everyone does—they’re the things one has to squint to see, to be careful not to miss when scanning another’s unconscious. The mind continues to function even through trauma.

The detail her weakened mind decides to provide her with now, what it deemed important while she was being _erased from the inside out_ , is that when everyone else in the room lunged _toward_ her, Susan stepped back.

Talia welcomes the loss of consciousness without shame.

* * *

_**Unknown, Unknown** _

 

She is feeble, and she doesn’t even have a body to express those feelings through. It’s like she’s taken a severe mind blast and is lying in some hellish in-between recovery.

She’s waiting, for some kind of change, _anything._

She’s waiting for this to be over.

She’s waiting to die.

She’s simplified time into “long” and “short.” Anything else makes the pain worse, and even though she imagines that will lead to some kind of end, she can’t bring herself to hurt herself more. It’s all too much.

She can’t even bring herself to place blame. She’s not a victim, not if this is something she’s doing to herself.

* * *

“Long” becomes “too long.” She decides to try to die.

She stretches her mind out until the pain gets as close to the first threshold she remembers, the initial blast from that word in her brain (initial pain impact results in the mind going into shock, which is something few people understand but Talia knows very well—the worst pain comes _after_ ), and her mind goes blurry, but not in the _right way_.

Not in the right way that will kill her.

Apparently, she’s become a lot more well-acquainted with death.

She stretches out again, quickly, violently, exactly the way they tell you not to do with your muscles, not in trepidation but in pure despair. _End it_.

* * *

She wakes up.

It didn’t work.

She wants to try again and should try again (she does not know the way, but she knows she’ll know when she gets there, which means _ending_ is very much possible) but she doesn’t, because to her surprise (her surely growing madness), she finds thoughts behind the pain and despair.

She’s been able to _endure_ this.

She, Talia, however faintly and however broken, has managed to survive.

It’s a thought that won’t be pushed aside (or maybe she’s just too tired to fight), so she lets it in, and she lets it grow.

* * *

There’s either less pain or she’s getting used to it. She doesn’t spend too much time thinking about that because she’s not concerned. She’s alive (in a sense). She’s hurting but not paralyzed. She’s trapped, but no one has tried to hurt her yet.

Control either doesn’t sense her or doesn’t think she’s worth worrying about. Logic tells Talia to believe the latter, but for all intents and purposes, she should be dead.

She should be dead.

For all she knows (and feels, because Talia and her intuition have a relationship tentative at best, but she trusts it when it comes to minds), she’s not that far away from death. She quells the shot of despair that shakes her. She’ll deal with that later. She has limited time. She’s recovering (she doesn’t ask how or why or if there will be any side effects), and pain doesn’t send her to sleep anymore, but she finds it’s much more comfortable to think, to stretch her thoughts, when Her thoughts are relaxed, less intense.

Talia has no idea if Control has a gender, though she imagines a female personality would be engineered to go into a female body. Anything is possible with Psi Corps (another thought she pushes away—she knows that it benefits her in this situation to stop thinking of this body as hers, but she can’t, so she tries not to think about it at all). Control appears to get enough pleasure out of traditional femininity—Talia usually sleeps when Control’s awake because that’s when Talia gets tired, but she’s usually somewhat conscious when Control gets dressed in the morning, doing all kinds of tastelessly frivolous things to Talia’s hair (and Control quite loves the hair, Talia thinks, with a satisfaction that she has no right to feel, designs whole outfits around the golden color like some kind of twisted trophy won in a bet).

Control is apparently a heavy sleeper, another quiet indignity against Talia, because she remembers restless nights dating back to when she was first interning out of school (she tries not to think too much about what Control may have been doing then—as much as she likes people, Talia always treasured her time alone, away from the thoughts of others, and apparently that bit of time hadn’t been completely hers in a long time, and _who knows how long_ is a thought that she’s pushing away _constantly_ ).

Have they switched places?

She needs to know how long she’s been like this.

It’s hard to act when Control’s awake. It’s hard to even know what she’s doing—Talia’s tried before, trying to wake up the smallest bit, trying to connect with what Control’s feeling—the way she walks, the way she moves. It hasn’t worked yet, but Talia doesn’t try too hard—she’s still confused as to why Control doesn’t notice her. Talia didn’t know Control, but Control was sleeping when she was inside her—that was different.

Talia, meanwhile, is fully conscious with no way of doing—well, _anything_ , really.

Still—Control would probably have to report to Psi Corps on Earth soon—Talia guesses within the week. It hasn’t been that long, but it’s been close. She remembers at least four non-pain-induced sleeps—some meals, perhaps. The meeting could even be happening today.

They’ll scan her, and if they find Talia, they’ll kill them, wipe them, or do any of that combination. If they don’t find Talia—

Well, she’s gotten lucky before, but that was because of Jason, and he’s gone. Talia’s luck’s in short supply and nearly used up, and she’s not sure how much she believes in luck anyway.

She needs to know how much influence she has over Control, and she needs to know that now.

She starts with movement. Verbal thought commands don’t work (then again, thinking “move” at a limb is never going to make that limb move). She concentrates, lets go of the words, tries to feel out the landscape of her mind (what’s left of it), of Control’s mind. Motor functions have to be in there somewhere. She pushes, and when that doesn’t work, she feels out the slow waves of Control’s sleeping mind and tries to slip through those, around those and— _there_ —

Control rolls over in her sleep, and for a moment, Talia is overwhelmed by sensation—the sheets around her, the muscles in her arm and back (which are a little twisted, and Talia wonders if Control’s going to figure out that this body needs to sleep with a pillow between its legs). It’s gone after a few moments, and Talia’s exhausted, but she’s exhilarated, the feeling she used to get when she was a child and bent the rules, back before the rules became synonymous with life and survival (and now, a lie).

That gets her thinking. If she can (in theory) move Control, can she also influence other things?

She settles on oranges, something simple enough. She thinks for an hour (and feels downright silly about it) about the way they taste, smell, feel in her mouth—sharp and sweet. For the hell of it, she adds in scenery—a cool day on the edge of spring, warm in the sun but freezing in the shade. Flowers. Blue silk.

She forces herself to stay awake past Control waking up (if She knows she’s there, there’s not much she can do about it at this point) despite the fear flooding her thoughts.

Control has the fruit platter for breakfast and eats the oranges first. If she notices Talia in the back of her mind, she doesn’t say or think anything.

Talia drifts off then. A small victory is still a victory.

* * *

_**Psi Corps Facility, Unknown** _

 

“It’ll have to be a deep scan, a very deep scan,” someone’s saying, and Talia wakes up to find herself in a room with two other telepaths—not Psi Cops but strong all the same.

“I know that,” snaps Control rudely. “You don’t have to treat me like a child.” She grips the edge of the table in front of her and braces herself.

If Talia had any control over her breath, she’d be holding it, but Control’s breathing quickly now.

There’s no pain. It’s strange, because Control grits her teeth and yells, but Talia feels like she’s been anesthetized, pressure without the pain. Still, it lasts for much too long, and Talia knows what a scan that deep feels like. She’s glad when it’s over, even finds herself feeling a little sorry for Control, who’s not only an implanted personality but also an implanted personality that’s _self-aware_ and therefore has apparently never undergone anything of the sort.

Talia thinks of her mind, both of them inside of it. It’s broken, unnatural. If she could shudder, she would.

“Well?” says Control after, breathing hard, rubbing her forehead.

“The program was successful,” says the first telepath, the one with the voice that matches the one that Talia was hearing when she first awoke. “The scan is consistent with that of the control personality and of a human P5. However, we may need to give you a physical exam as well.”

“Your brain may have some damage,” says the second telepath. “The scan showed some readings that are indicative of that.”

“Talia Winters’ last physician’s appointment not long before I left Babylon 5,” says Control. “She was fine.”

“Either something happened to her after, or something happened to you,” says the first telepath, making no attempt to hide her condescension. “It will happen tomorrow. You shouldn’t eat or drink anything for twelve hours before the exam. If you’ll come with us, we’ll show you to your room.”

Control collapses on the bed as soon as she reaches her quarters, apparently more exhausted from the scan than she let on, meaning Talia has more room to clearly think. Her mind races. If there’s brain damage, there’s a significantly higher chance of getting wiped or killed. It’s as good as them finding her out.

It strikes her then—how _silent_ everything is. She hears murmurs, of course, parts of Control’s own telepathic powers, but she gets everything secondhand. She imagines she doesn’t have access to her own abilities, the way that She hadn’t had access to Hers, but—

But there was one part of her, a quiet part, a scary part, a part that Psi Corps couldn’t touch.

The question is if it still exists now, if she can move things without a direct line of sight.

She's never tried that before.

If she concentrates hard enough, she can get full body sensations—she feels the weight of her (Her? Their?) own body pressing down on the top of the bed. Control’s eyes are closed, so her eyes are closed too, but the room is standard Psi Corps, which means that there’s a poster on the wall to her left hung a precise location: The Corps is Mother, the Corps is Father.

It’s like stretching a muscle that has atrophied. She pushes again and again and again until—there—she hears the rustle.

She practices with other items in the room—the television, the little sculpture on the nightstand. They require a lot of effort, but they all move.

She’s a little wild from her victory, which probably isn’t good but can’t be bad. She finds herself coming up with a plan now, resolving to either break free or die trying. She’s sad, scared, hurting, _angry_ , angry at being used, angry that the people she could trust more than anyone else surely thought she was a traitor now.

Big, desperate, heroic moves aren’t something she does. That’s something a room full of people she tried to kill did.

She tried to kill them, and they pushed toward her, except for Susan.

Susan stepped back.

Susan, who looked devastated when Control told her she was dead, a look that pierced Talia, even if at the time, she was the equivalent of a person falling asleep, in the very, very last moments of consciousness.

If she’s honest with herself, honest in a way she was never taught to be, honest in the way that she has _learned_ to be on Babylon 5, in a way that latches, chilling, onto her consciousness and doesn’t let go, she’s as good as already dead. Maybe she’s not strong enough to do something like this when she has something to lose, but she has nothing to lose now, and that’s apparently the motivation she needs.

She can’t think about that right now—she needs to focus on what she’s going, what she’s invented for herself to do, what she thinks she’s doing, because if she doesn’t, she’s going to fall into despair. Talia shoves her emotions into a single thought—freedom—and Control wakes with a gasp, clawing at her own throat, looking at her distressed face in the mirror next to her bed, pulling her hair (why she insists on blow-drying the waves into it, Talia will never understand—Control has to know by now that her hair resists volume the way oil resists water) away from where it sticks to her neck. She tears off her gloves (she fell asleep wearing them) and looks at her hands.

 _Good_ , Talia finds herself thinking, because the anger’s making her feel braver than she knows she is, _she should understand the price people like us pay for loyalty._

Talia doesn’t dream in this state, but sometimes she gets flashes of memory while she sleeps. She remembers her bare hands in other telepaths’ hands, her brothers and sisters, feeling strong and tall and revolutionary. She tries to remember the feeling when Control’s woken up the next morning and taken to her exam, with Talia sitting in the back of her mind, alone and small as she always has been.

This time, though, she also feels powerful, and she doesn’t know what to do with that, but she tries to hold the feeling as close as she can.

* * *

Their body has brain damage, lesions in places that Talia doesn’t quite catch, but she knows how to read the mood of a room, with or without her telepathic abilities. She hears the tech say, “We can start all over,” and it’s _now or be wiped_ , so she lets hell break loose.

She’s honestly not sure how much damage she can cause, but she figures expending herself this much will either work or cause her to pass out, after which there’s a good chance either way that she won’t wake up.

At first, she doesn’t think she’s done everything. There’s a moment of silence, a moment of stillness that Talia attributes to her own flawed perception of time (she can see clocks now, but she’s still stuck to “short” and “long,” but then—then everything goes _haywire_ ).

Machines scream. Electronics spark. The two telepaths from earlier run into the room—Control’s sitting up, looking terrified.

 _“What did you do?”_ hisses the first one, and Talia sees that the magnet-driven scanning machine pulls her Psi Corps badge clean off her chest and away—Control ducks when it comes flying at her.

“This isn’t me!” says Control. “I couldn’t—I _can’t_.”

(She’s _weak_ , Talia realizes—from the procedure, from the strain on her own body, possibly even from Talia—she has no idea how, but Control is weak.)

“Liar!” yells the second one, and their guns are drawn.

Control’s eyes dart around the room, so Talia looks with her. “No!” The tech running the scan has gotten the hell out of the room—with good reason. Talia doesn’t have to worry about that person now. She’s done this before, planned, with others, on one person. She’s never done it on two, and she’s never done it from this far back in her mind. This isn’t the kind of thing she does. This isn’t the kind of thing she does _alone_.

And she is alone.

It’s one of the hardest thoughts yet to push aside, so she uses another thought to do it: _they stepped forward, everyone lunged forward, and Susan stepped back._

The ache is enough to steel herself (she is well-acquainted with pain now) and projects. This kind of scene is nothing new to her by now.

_They shoot._

_She screams._

_She falls, and a shower of sparks rain down around her, as the room lights up._

They run away for help.

“What the fuck?” whispers Control, watching the two telepaths walk away, the common profanity on her tongue sounding wrong to Talia. The illusion worked.

Talia’s getting enough courage up, enough mental power up to run away, Control’s consciousness not mattering to her, when she’s shot—for real this time—and falls.


	3. Revelation in the Light of Day

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for your comments! I'm quite overwhelmed!

**_Unknown, Unknown_ **

It’s dark, but then, it’s always dark to Talia when Control’s asleep.

Control’s still there, knocked out for the moment, but where is she? Bleeding? Dying? It occurs to Talia suddenly that if Control dies here, she dies too, but she probably wouldn’t feel a thing.

She concentrates on sensation—it’s getting easier and easier now. She only needs to concentrate a little bit to feel what Control’s feeling while she’s asleep. She’d be tempted to try it awake, but she knows (feels, for some reason) Control probably isn’t going to wake up.

She’s lying on the ground somewhere, hard, uneven. There’s a sharp pain in her back, a puncture, not a muscle ache. Her skin burns, and it takes her a while to realize why—her skin’s been scraped with something. They’re not at a Psi Corps base, and when she wonders why she knows that all of a sudden, she realizes that it’s the smell—there’s no sterility here. The smell is earthy, heady.

And there’s a voice, concentrated, fierce, with a slight quiver.

“Tell me what to _do_ ,” Talia hears the voice say, and it’s familiar, but she can’t place it. “You never tell me what to do. ‘Free her,’ you tell me. I do it. I shoot at a mundane, knock out telepaths, drag her _deadweight_ body all the way out here. She is _very tall_! She won’t wake up. I don’t know what I’m doing—who she is. _She tried to kill me_. I save that whole space station from her because I’m supposed to, and now I’m supposed to save her—”

The realization comes, bright and intense. Lyta?

Before she can concentrate on the voice more, it’s stopped. Talia hears a rustle of fabric, knows that someone’s moving over her. “Talia, if that’s you, you’d better let me know pretty soon, because I swear to—to _someone_ , and I’m not sure who, but that’s a _whole other story_ —I’m this close to calling this whole damn thing off—”

Lyta’s here to help? Talia of course can’t be sure of that, but something says yes, and Lyta is—was—is ( _is_ because Talia doesn’t have a lot of other options right now) something Talia can bank on.

Control won’t wake. Talia wonders if she can reach out by moving something, but she has no idea where she is, and as far as Lyta’s concerned, she was a P5 when she left. Anything else would probably cause her defenses to go up. 

Of course, it would help if Talia had any access at all to her old abilities. 

Talia has to reach Lyta another way. She thinks back to her studies, the mechanics of telepathy, manipulating waves into physical motion. She thinks about Lyta’s mind, the best way she knew it years ago, the texture of it, the way it moved and thought. She reaches out.

Lyta gasps, and Talia hears her stumble.

“Talia?” she says again, whispering this time, as if she’s corrected her volume for the possibility that they might not be alone. “Talia, I need to know if you’re in there, even a little bit, but I have to _know_ before I do something, understand me?”

She’s felt something, but she’s not sure what. Talia wracks her brain again (she’s getting tired—she’s pretty sure that this is the longest she’s been awake since the day she was torn away—but there’s also a significant possibility that this body’s been sedated). Telepaths don’t necessarily need words. They can talk amongst themselves (for people like her and Lyta, this usually means touching, and Talia can’t be completely sure, but she wouldn’t touch her body if she was in Lyta’s shoes). The words, of course, were what they used to talk to each other, but Talia’s guessing that she’s either been away from language too long or her status as a (latent? sleeper? extra?) personality, weak and damaged as she knows she must be, isn’t enough to make words work.

There’s a universal language of thought that Psi Corps telepaths are taught to use with each other, especially since all of them didn’t speak the same language, but she doesn’t use that. The way she was speaking with Lyta before was already a modified shorthand of that, thought mixed in with English.

She tries again, a way she uses with alien clients who don’t speak English, a way that she’s pretty sure Lyta uses too, short and concise bursts of thought and feeling wrapped together, simple but short. _Presence. Imprisonment. Help._ She makes sure to wrap each burst in desperation, because in Talia’s experience, that’s worked better in communication for her than anything else.

The part of Control’s telepath mind that processes people’s thoughts subconsciously, even while she’s sleeping, registers that Lyta’s considering.

“You can’t reach me because you’re too far away,” says Lyta uncertainly, and Talia would smile if she could. Communicating with alien minds is a strange business, but she knows for a fact that Lyta was said to have a talent for it.

Talia sends her response. _Correct_. It’s the easiest type of send, a yes or no, not too far away removed from the human thought language.

“To whom am I speaking?” Lyta asks, carefully, lightly.

It’s not a yes or no question. She’s going to make this difficult. Talia thinks of how to phrase it. Her last name is easy enough— _winter_ is a fairly easy thought to come up with. Too easy. _Talia_ is a little harder. She thinks of its longer form, _Natalia_ , Christmas, a holiday she’s always celebrated under secular means rather than religious. She thinks of the one Christmas she and Lyta spent together, eating too much, drinking too much. She remembers how beautifully disarming it had been.

_Cold. Celebration. Inebriation. Comfort._

Then, because she’s still giddy with the idea of all of this being over, one way or another, of being brave, she adds another word. _Eggnog_.

“You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

Talia wants to meet her relief with her own, but she doesn’t have much time. _Help_.

“Are you alone?”

 _Wrong_. She adds, before Lyta can hesitate too long, _Kill_.

She’s okay with the idea of dying at Lyta’s hands. They know each other better than most, and it had already happened, hadn’t it? At least Lyta would know that some part of Talia existed after that day on Babylon 5 before Lyta finished what she had started.

“No,” says Lyta quietly. “You’re not dying today. Neither of us is dying today. Too much has happened. There’s a way. I just need to know if you want her awake for it or not.” That realization hits Talia cold, and she has no qualms about sharing that feeling with Lyta. “I know I don’t have to ask, but I—I just think maybe you’d _want_ —” There’s the quiver in Lyta’s voice again. Talia’s not used to it. 

Talia considers Control for a moment—no name, no body of her own, born only for destruction, programmed with the blind loyalty that the rest of them shared, though it was likely she’d ever deviate, wearing Talia’s clothes, styling Talia’s hair, trying to kill Talia’s friends.

She thinks of the questions she wants to ask her—what she knows, how she’s done what she’s done, why she did it, why _Susan_ (Susan, who stepped back) of all people was the one she chose to hurt.

 _Hurt_ makes Talia think of her own pain, her mind giving birth to someone she’d never asked for, never even _known_ about, and sitting dormant and crippled for a long, long time.

Too long.

Lyta didn’t ask a yes or no question, though, and Talia pushes the nausea she’s feeling (a feeling that manifests in the stomach but originates in the mind, the result of _imbalance_ ) into the answer she gives Lyta. _Euthanize_.

She’s thankful that Lyta doesn’t respond to that either way. Lyta’s had to witness these types of decisions before, though. They all have. “It will be painful,” says Lyta.

Talia wants to bark out laughter, remembers she can’t, and sends that feeling to Lyta instead.

“Here goes nothing,” says Lyta, then, in a word that sums up Talia’s simultaneous thought in a way that sends unease rippling over her—“Forgive me.”

Neither of them specify who they’re talking to, and Talia’s not sure either of them mean to talk to anyone—it’s just a general plea, to comfort oneself, to anyone who will listen.

It’s not getting dragged back into her body that hurts Talia— _mirrors_ and _darkness_ and _violation_ and _paralyzing fear_ —it’s Control’s desperation as she decreases and Talia increases. They meet in the middle, Control’s unconscious panic that Talia knows is now going to be a part of her forever, even as Control leaves her body for the final time. 

* * *

 

**_Mars Resistance Underground Tunnel, 2260_ **

Lyta’s become increasingly used to the fact that she doesn’t know what she’s doing half the time she’s doing it. It’s an act of pure faith when the Vorlons use her as a vessel. She doesn’t understand, will never completely understand their motives, but faith is enough. Seeing the world through obscured Vorlon eyes still lets her see more clearly than she ever saw through her human ones. She has more purpose than she ever thought she did. She has belonging.

She is, surprisingly (and she’s a little happy about that for Talia’s sake, because Talia doesn’t even know what’s happening—it didn’t take much to put her out again—Lyta can feel her strain and fatigue), conscious for this, which is a little scary because she has no idea what she’s supposed to be doing, walking around someone else’s mind like this, someone she knows.

Then, she feels a familiar sensation that she’s only had a handful of times, like she’s immersed herself suddenly in a large, cool pool of water.

Lyta fights the thoughts that tell her that she’s _drowning, get out_ , leans into Talia’s mind (another act of faith, but Talia’s mind’s always been a beautiful place to her) until it’s synonymous with hers.

Even against the strain of the deep scan (and this _is_ a deep scan, with variation—she needs to do this quickly or she kills both of them), she feels her fear evaporate, a small light in the darkness. Almost. The problem is that she’s not alone in here, not that she thinks Control is going to be able to do anything—the personality was already weak when Lyta arrived and she doesn’t walk the same wavelength Lyta and Talia do here because Control wasn’t around when Lyta and Talia met, months out of the Academy, three years out of near-species annihilation, young and lonely and out of their depth. 

She’s not alone because she broke this place, and she can see the signs now. It’s dark here, but not the same type of dark she remembers, not the comfort nuanced by the warmth of Talia’s thoughts. This place is a dark alley behind a bad bar, harshly lit with neon-colored fear, mirrors throwing distortion back at her.

She touches one of them. It’s so cold it hurts. “Oh, Talia.” She thinks her apology into the chasm that is Talia’s mind. She never wanted this.

She already has a headache, which means Talia’s going to be in twice the amount of pain. She needs to hurry.

Of course, it would help if she knew what the hell she needed to do in here besides get the invading personality out from however deep it was planted and make sure she didn’t kill either or her Talia in the process. Preferably, this was going to happen without her rummaging around more than she had to—she can only imagine how bad it’s been for Talia.

No pressure or anything.

 _Reflection, surprise, terror_.

She doesn’t know how the thoughts come into her mind. They’re not hers, which means— 

“Talia!”

She wants to run, find her in this and pull her out, but she’s already lost. She forces herself to feel the space around her before she sees, the same way Talia was talking to her.

_They’re young. It’s Christmas. It’s freezing, but they don’t care. They’re walking in the snow, leaning into each other in the cold._

It doesn’t really count as one of Talia’s memories, because it’s one that Lyta has too, but there’s just enough of a thread there that if she just follows it a little—

 _Lyta’s not that much shorter than Talia, but Talia’s opted for tall boots, and top of Lyta’s head is right underneath her chin. She’s endearing, brave in a way that Talia’s never going to be because that’s something that can’t be taught_.

It’s not getting lighter around her, really—she’s not even seeing, more like feeling, but Talia doesn’t exactly have _sight_ —but that’s the best way she can describe it. Each thought, each thread illuminates the space around her. The mirrors seem to sparkle in it.

 _The thought starts in Lyta as a seed, somewhere deep and hidden, somewhere no one else can touch. Lyta wasn’t aware there was any part of her that didn’t belong to someone else—and it’s not that she avoids relationships because she doesn’t—she just doesn’t actively seek them out. Besides, the Corps is a relationship in and of itself. And yet, with Kosh, she’s never felt like this much of an individual and part of a collective this wonderful. She doesn’t understand it, but she doesn’t_ need _to understand something that is this deep, this beautiful._

 _Talia shouldn’t, but she can’t help it. She’s done this her whole life, throwing herself at selected people for companionship, even if it was just for friendship. Still, she can’t believe that she feels this deeply about Susan Ivanova when they’ve just met and don’t even technically_ like _each other—she’s so different and believes nearly the opposite of what Talia’s held as fundamental truth all her life, and yet, here she is, pushing for something—she’s not even sure what—on a whim, and Susan—Susan’s coming closer. With reservation, but still, Talia will wait…_

_She flickers on the edge of death—and isn’t that what Vorlon space practically is anyway? This is bad. She knows this is bad. There’s a corner of her mind that tells her just how bad it is to cut herself off of everything she’s ever known due to a situation that was probably never meant to happen, but she just feels so strongly, and if one can’t live on faith, then what else is there to live for if there’s no answer to her want, her need, her loneliness? Her voice of reason has been silenced. There’s nothing left but fear and waiting—so much waiting._

The images are coming more slowly now—in a scan this deep, that means she’s probably cut oxygen off to her brain—and Talia’s. They don’t have long now. This is the limit.

 _The vulnerability isn’t excruciating—she is used to vulnerability, wears it as a kind of makeshift mask that she has learned to fit to herself—but it’s not comfortable. She’s carrying her telekinesis around in her head, saying no to what she is—no, just where she comes from. She is something else, but she’s not sure what. This isn’t what she does, but she’s doing it. She’s homeless—physically and mentally—and Susan’s taken her in. Susan’s_ taking her in now _, tongue working against her like slow waves on a shore, and maybe she’s asked Talia to keep control (Talia would never intrude on her thoughts, never, not without her explicit permission), but Talia doesn’t have to control everything, and she’s scared and she’s needy, and she can still feel Susan on her mouth, and Susan’s taken her hand somewhere in the middle of all this, and she screams—  
_

She screams.

Lyta is not sure who the She is, or why She’s screaming (maybe they’re all screaming, Lyta included), but she can’t process thoughts too well right now, but something’s happening—there’s painful light and sound around her and the mirrors are breaking, the threads are shattering, and she knows this because she’s feeling everything the three of them are feeling—they are one, and that _scares_ Lyta, because she’s not prepared for that, for any of that.

She registers the three become two, and she thinks wildly that if she’s completely fucked this up, Talia’s at least going to be done some justice.

They all deserve that much.

* * *

Talia wakes up to find herself sprawled out on the floor, Lyta passed out beside her, gripping her wrist. She holds a flashlight in her other hand, but even that much light is disconcerting to Talia after so long without seeing herself, using the muscles behind her eyes. She’s sluggish when she reaches over to turn off the light, and it takes her another moment to realize that Lyta’s taped her hand around Talia’s wrist.

A deep scan. She must have kept going even as she was losing motor control. Talia raises a shaking hand to Lyta neck. Pulse. Breathing. She’s still alive.

Talia’s wearing two hospital gowns—one tied clumsily behind her and then another on top of it, like a robe. They’re dirty but alright for now.

She tastes the grit of aspirin on her tongue, and the neckline of the hospital gown is damp, like Lyta’s forced it down her throat with some water. Blood thinners (basic, though—Talia wonders if anyone else knows that she's here at all). A very deep scan, then.

They’re underground, she’s sure of it. Some kind of abandoned tunnel. She’s not sure if they’re on Earth. Mars, maybe? Lyta’s still breathing, wearing some kind of wire contraption on her head that Talia will need to ask her about later. Lyta will wake up soon, but for now, Talia’s the only person in the tunnel.

Control is gone. 

Control is _dead_.

Talia has no idea how long she’s been sitting here.

Her back stings. Her legs sting, and she runs her hands over them to feel the scraped flesh, but then she’s too overwhelmed by the fact that she can move again, that her body is probably her own for the first time in who knows how long, and she weeps silently (she’s not sure she remembers how to weep _loudly_ ), arms wrapped around her legs tightly enough that she can feel them, that she can make sure that she feels every part of her body that she’s been separated from for so long. 

* * *

Talia can’t find it in herself to sleep. Her mind is racing, trying to readapt to her body, but she’s physically tired, so she’s drifting off half-conscious against the side of the cave when Lyta wakes up.

“Are you okay?” is the first thing she groans out, even as she struggles to sit (and doesn’t quite make it on her first or second attempts).

Talia answers her telepathically, then realizes what she’s doing and tries to speak (she opens her mouth and nods her head—it’s been a while since she’s used words).

“How long’s it been?” she says, sitting up, rubbing her head. “God, it’s like the mother of all hangovers. It’s so dark in here.” 

Talia goes to turn on the flashlight, but Lyta shakes her head—less light, not more. “The hangover is mother, the hangover is father,” says Talia weakly. Her voice feels strange in her own throat, hard and rough and wrong.

She reaches out a little bit and finds that Lyta’s left her mind wide open to her. _I haven’t used words in a while_ , she thinks to Lyta.

 _That was a bad joke_ , Lyta thinks back.

She looks down at their joined hands. “Sorry. I didn’t know how long I’d be able to hold on. You were out like a light, but it was—kind of a nightmare. It got hard to look after a while, and then it got hard for me to stand—or do anything. I barely completed the scan. Talia, we were here for a very long time.”

Meaning one or both of them could have died. “I understand,” says Talia, and it comes out more bitter than she first intended.

“I dragged you down here myself,” says Lyta. “Someone was setting off alarms all over the building, and people were pretty distracted, but I was still by myself. Was that—”

Talia swallows. “It was me. Lyta, what happened?”

“In short?” says Lyta, reaching up with her free hand to pull her wire crown free. A data crystal falls free—it’s blank, Talia sees. “Kosh. The longer version comes after I scan you.” 

_No_ , says Talia, and Lyta’s pushing the bottle of aspirin into her hand.

“It helps if you take some first.” Talia doesn’t move. “Come on, I taped us really well, and I need a free hand to open this bottle. I need some too.”

Talia moves their joined hands to find Lyta firmly holding her hand in place. “You’re afraid I’m her, that I’m going to fight you.” Not that either of them are in any shape right now to fight anything.

“What would you do in my place?” asks Lyta.

“You shouldn’t have even been able to see it if it was there.”

“Frankly, I shouldn’t have been able to take her out,” says Lyta. “You shouldn’t have been able to talk to me from that deep. I know something’s happened to both of us. We’re even.” 

Talia reaches over and unscrews the cap of the bottle. Lyta offers her water. She takes it, then presses her hand to her mouth. “Go.” 

She tries to tell herself that this is nothing compared to nearly dying in her own mind. She screams during the scan anyway. Lyta doesn’t seem alarmed, so for a reason that Talia’s not particularly concerned with, she’s not worried about someone hearing. Talia’s not sure if her hand helps or not.

“She’s gone,” says Lyta. She shakes her head.

“What’s wrong?” asks Talia. She thinks about the brain scans from before, and Lyta grins.

“Your brain is fine. I’d heard them talking and thought that maybe—” says Lyta.

“You didn’t alter the scans too?” asked Talia.

“I didn’t even know where you were. I had to feel everyone out, which was hard enough because it was a Corps facility and even harder because she wasn’t _you_.” She starts to pull the tape away from their arms. “Can you walk? We need to move. I’ve been soundproofing this hallway—and having you here actually helps with that a lot—but I might be too tired to keep it up.”

Talia remembers thinking of herself as shattered, of her mind as shattered. “Projection,” she starts to say, but then she’s seeing spots. Talia’s thirsty, tired, and stinging all over. She ignores it in the way that she’s gotten used to ignoring her thoughts when she was trapped in her own head. “Yes.” She stumbles, and Lyta’s behind her suddenly, flashlight on, aimed low at the ground, arms around her hips. Talia whimpers as Lyta lowers her back to the ground, pushes Talia’s head down low by her knees.

“I know,” whispers Lyta, as Talia’s willing what little vision she has in the dark to come back to her. “I know, okay? It hurts. You’re tired. You’re wondering why the hell this has gotten this messed up and why you’re concerned with it. Believe me, _I know_. But we’re getting out of here, we’re going to live, and you do not have to do this alone. I’m going to be here the whole time, okay?”

Talia realizes suddenly that Lyta’s not wearing gloves and is bare up to the middle of her elbows. She takes both her hands. The last time someone’s touched her this much, touched her as _her_ was—was—

_They lunged forward, and Susan stepped back._

There are thoughts in Talia’s head that aren’t her own, thoughts that are most certainly Lyta’s, that couldn’t have been there unless—

“You know,” repeats Talia. Lyta’s apparently been through a separate kind of hell.

“Yes,” says Lyta through gritted teeth, with a ferocity familiar to Talia; it was there when she and Lyta first met. “And I’m sorry. I didn’t know I’d have to go in that deep—”

Talia shakes her head. “Of course you would have had to. That’s how deep she was. That’s how deep I was. It makes sense.” Then, completely inappropriately, Talia lets out a weak breath of laughter. “Kosh sent you to bring me back because of that one time we—"

Lyta stumbles when she laughs and catches Talia. “Sorry. I—I don’t know. I think there could have been another way to do it, but that was just the easiest way. That’s how you talked to me and—” She still looks nervous. Talia doesn’t know what to do to make her feel better, so she just takes a step forward, then another, then another. Lyta settles at her side, links arms with her.

“So, what’s been new since I’ve been gone?” Talia asks. Another laughter-fueled stumble. Talia might as well have just asked her about the weather.

Lyta laughs, no stumble. “You wouldn’t believe.”

Talia manages a smirk, however faint. “We _are_ talking about the same space station, right?"


	4. Echoes of a City That's Long Overgrown

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ideally, this chapter and the one that will come after it would have been one chapter, but that was quite long, and I didn't want to mess with the current chapter lengths, which feel good to me pace-wise. The format that worked best turned out to be making this into an integrated flashback, which makes sense because of all the sleeping/dreaming/telepathy that's just gone down. Also, it felt very B5-esque to me to have the time jumping around (at least in this one, you get headings to separate out everything). ;)
> 
> Warnings for references to mind trauma, an inappropriate teacher/student relationship, and drunken gal pal nights in the ol' Psi Corps.
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. :)

**_Mars Resistance Underground Cell, 2260_ **

It’s anything but smooth travel. Talia collapses twice, Lyta collapses once, and they sleep in shifts because, they don’t talk about it, but they both have nightmares, and since the violent return of Talia's personality to her body, they sometimes have  _each other's_ nightmares. After a particularly bad night (Talia curls up, puts both hands over her mouth, and stillcan't stop her screaming, while Lyta just stares off into nothing for what seems like forever), they’re both on stims for the last two days of travel (Lyta’s planned for this well and carries a nearly endless bag that reminds Talia of a movie, but she can't remember which one). Nevertheless, Talia doesn’t want to talk about it, and Lyta doesn’t seem to either. It’s a relief.

Talia hasn’t been gone for a week. She’s been gone for _a year_ , which means that there’s a year and a half of her life unaccounted for, a year and a half where she’s never going to know what she did, what she was programmed to do, trapped in her mind, wounded, dying.

She’s slept through the end of a war, the beginning of another war, and now everything’s literally going to hell on Earth.

They’re on Mars and have been the entire time. Lyta’s had this planned out for a long time, and they’ve had enough heavy food rations and water, but she still eats the meal Lyta cooks for her faster than she would like. It’s a small room with two cots, but it’s private, and it’s the most comfortable thing that she’s felt in weeks—truly, wholly felt in a year.

They have cold showers, but it’s the first time Talia’s had a shower in nearly a week, and she scrubs herself much harder than necessary. She still hurts all over, but she has enough open wounds (Lyta's stopped apologizing since she's realized that it makes Talia uncomfortable—dragging dead weight is hard) to where she's a little worried about infection. They both probably need medical attention, but, as Talia suspects, Lyta's very much alone in her mission. Babylon 5 doesn't even know where she is and, for some reason that Lyta doesn't tell her yet, doesn't ask. The Vorlons seem to keep all questions away, though, as Talia observes from what little of Lyta she's seen, they don't seem to do much else for her. Obviously, the scan has exhausted both of them, but Lyta tenses if Talia enters the room unexpected (this happens a lot—apparently Talia's gotten so used to moving silently that she catches herself walking on tiptoe most of the time), not in fear but more like she's expecting something—and not necessarily something good.

Talia doesn't like it.

Lyta’s the only one who has nightmares tonight, wakes up screaming “Zha’a’dum” over and over and over. Talia wakes her up, and she waits for Lyta to fall back to sleep as she decides that there isn't a word she despises more.

According to Lyta, they don’t have to worry about moving, just regaining their strength.

For now, anyway.

* * *

_**Psi Corps Academy, Transitory Unit, 2251** _

They meet at the six-month mark of their transition from the Academy to their post-graduate internships. It’s a transitory period designed to integrate them better, but it's still a full-service job, meaning they work right up until the winter holiday, but they also have to do mandatory testing to make sure their skills keep their polish.

Honestly, it doesn't feel much different than Academy, and it slightly annoys Talia, who’s been waiting to feel a little less supervised, but she understands why the tests are necessary (and one day, she’ll only need yearly recertification—she tells herself this every time she sits down to endure another painful mind probe).

She has one exam left, history, but she’s not worried. Most of them can recite telepath history from the stories and songs told to them when they were children. Besides, Talia’s always been a good test-taker, and this is one of the last times she’ll be taking an academy exam; she can’t bring herself to be too concerned.

Her thoughts are instead on her previous interaction, her regular mentor meeting with Matt Stoner. She’s progressing fine—they both know this and didn’t need a meeting to discuss that, but he’s decided to offer her encouragement (a hand at the small of her back) and congratulations (his fingers on the inside of her wrist, just brushing under the glove fabric).

She’d shivered. She hates that he makes her shiver.

It shouldn’t bother her that she’s won his favor. His favor stands for the favor of the Corps.

It shouldn’t bother her that he knows exactly where to touch her.

It shouldn’t bother her that she’s doing exactly what she’s supposed to be doing and feels vaguely uncomfortable, like she’s wearing a dress half a size too small.

Talia doesn’t want to talk to anyone, but she has the maddening need to not be alone either. She usually takes comfort in the solace of her room, away from the voices or disturbances in general—she doesn’t even turn the lights on that much when she’s alone—but today, she finds that she’ll take others’ stray thoughts over the disquiet of her own.

That’s how she finds herself in the cafeteria after dinner hours. The cafeteria’s turned into a study room of sorts, with students practicing for scan tests or reading, meaning their thoughts will be minimally intrusive at worst. Perhaps for that reason, it’s also crowded, and there’s no free table.

She chooses Lyta’s table because it’s secluded, in the middle of the room but partially blocked from the door. Lyta’s hair, clipped on top of her head as an afterthought, peeks out from behind a fake plant, an almost humorous beacon against the black-and-white décor of a Psi Corps facility (even though it’s after-hours, they’re all still dressed in their business suits, and this particular room seems to have a thing for black—Talia’s wearing beige, which makes her feel a little more self-conscious than usual).

“Pardon,” says Talia, gesturing to the chair.

“Knock yourself out,” says Lyta, not looking up from what she’s reading—a cookbook? Talia glances at the page Lyta’s examining as she sits down—cinnamon chocolate fudge. She tries to keep from laughing. Chocolate—real chocolate—is a dream even on Earth. They get some every once in a while—break would probably be one of those times. The thought of Lyta using her ration to cook instead of eating it immediately like others would do (like Talia would do, wrapped in a blanket with a mug of cider in her room) is a little humorous. She sits down and feels a little strange—there’s still too much silence.

“I’m Talia,” she offers.

Lyta looks up and pushes some hair behind her ear. “Winters, right?” she asks, then smiles back down at her book. “Lyta Alexander. You know, the blue bloods usually introduce themselves on the first day.”

Talia knows a little bit about her coworker. Lyta’s a transfer, came in a month late, and is probably the closest thing to an old money family that Psi Corps has. “My name’s just a name,” Talia replies. She knows the gritty history connected to her name. Hardly anyone ever brings it up, though. She shakes her head. “Nice to meet you.”

There’s a beat that Lyta spends, seemingly finishing the page she’s on, before she closes the book and pushes it aside, smiling though she’s clearly tired. “How have exams been?”

Talia shrugs. “I have one tomorrow. History, though.”

“That’s always a good one to end on,” says Lyta. She rolls her eyes a little. “Naturally, that was my first one. I finished today though.” Her smile’s a little pained.

“Bad?” asks Talia.

“I had to resist a deep scan for forty minutes,” says Lyta, then, a little softer—“I think maybe I didn’t practice as well as I should have, because my head’s _killing_ me.”

Talia reaches for her purse. “Aspirin?” She always carries some on her during exams.

Lyta laughs softly. “I already took one, thanks. You know how you just have to kind of wait for them to go away?”

Talia finds herself smiling for the first time in days. “I do, actually, yeah. No one ever talks about that part.”

“Well, no,” says Lyta, eyes wide in mock innocence, “not in Psi Corps, especially if you're going for enforcement. That would take all the drama out of the situation, the whole ‘we all go through the same thing’ part. We’re all clearly invincible.”

She’s never thought of it that way before. They do spend a lot of time trying to save face. “Drama?” asks Talia.

“Yes, Ms. Winters,” replies Lyta, in a pretty good imitation (as far as Talia can tell) of Talia’s voice. It would come off as mockery if her face wasn’t so easy, so open. “Telepaths are the most dramatic people ever. We live on drama. It’s a shame mundanes can’t see that part of ourselves. We’d make a pretty sick soap opera.”

Talia thinks. “I mean, you hear some pretty weird stuff when people aren't keeping their thoughts away—”

“Just walking through these hallways can be scandalous,” says Lyta.

“—and there’s all of the secret headaches no one talks about,” says Talia, gesturing a little bit in Lyta’s direction with her hand.

“Secret pain,” Lyta says earnestly. They both giggle. It’s kind of a silly conversation. Lyta waves her hands around her face. “We’re all covered up, which is _mysterious._ ” She draws the word out.

“No one knows what’s under our gloves,” says Talia. She rolls her eyes a little.

“I mean, _I_ don’t know,” says Lyta. “I’ve never seen your hands. Could be hands. Could be infinity itself. I have no way of knowing. I mean, when’s the last time someone’s seen your hands besides you? You could be living a lie, Talia.”

Talia thinks suddenly of a different day, Mr. Stoner pulling her glove off—demonstrative purposes—running his hands along her palms. She furrows her brow involuntarily.

“Talia?” asks Lyta.

She looks concerned, Talia realizes, and wonders just how much of her face she let slip. She keeps those thoughts locked away, but her face—“Sorry.” Lyta’s still looking at her expectantly. Had she zoomed out of that much of the conversation? She must be losing it, which is probably why she says the next thing she says, phrased carefully of course—hand-touching is a little uncouth, but this is not. “Um—I think I’m getting married off soon.”

Lyta’s eyes widen, then narrow in understanding. “You’re sure.”

Lyta’s being kind. Teacher-student relationships are common enough, and it’s very common to hear thoughts broadcasted loudly in the hallways, accidentally-on-purpose. Mr. Stoner had made his feelings clear long before he touched Talia’s hands, long before she’d become aware of his eyes on her—his thoughts had said as much, had said as much as he wanted to say to her. Sometimes, they make them loud enough for other telepaths to hear, and Talia’s almost certain Lyta had to know about this, at least peripherally. Talia smiles weakly. “It’s not official but—you know.” Lyta’s a P5 just like she is. P5’s are rare but not rare enough for any special breeding—she—and most likely Lyta—will be married off to anyone at or around their rating who wants them.

Lyta chooses her words carefully, which is a little ridiculous, Talia finds herself thinking, that they have to talk this way when they literally have the ability to read every thought and thought under the thought from each other, but they maintain their distance. “Did you find that out today?”

Lyta’s sharp, she realizes. “Yes.”

Talia gasps then, a sound that she disguises as a cough, because there’s a flash of hot anger at the edge of her mind, gone as quickly as it comes, but it’s intense and not her own. When she meets Lyta’s eyes, she finds them neutral.

Sharp as a tack.

Talia feels ashamed, then, unloading on someone she’s just met, even though Lyta seems polite and receptive enough. Talia wonders if she would have been better off in her room after all. She’d still be spilling all over herself emotionally, but at least no one would have seen it. “I’m sorry.”

Lyta’s hands have been resting lightly on the table in front of her, but one of them shoots out now and touches Talia’s. “No,” Lyta says firmly. “We’re all family here. That’s what they tell us, right? Don’t be sorry. You’re okay.”

Talia doesn’t know what to say, but she’s just as adept at sending her feelings to others. She hits Lyta with a shot of her relief now. Lyta bows her head a little bit and retracts her hand. Talia looks down at the table.

“You in a relationship with anyone else?” Lyta asks, and when Talia looks up, Lyta’s wearing the easy smile from before, one that has just a touch of mischief.

“No,” answers Talia. She tries to keep herself from laughing. Such a question is ludicrous. She's too busy.

Lyta leans back in her chair. “Well, you know, that’s good. That’s the oldest story in the book, you know. In love with one person—pledged to another.” She lifts the back of her wrist to her forehead with knowing smile.

“Dramatic,” notes Talia.

Lyta tilts her head to the side. “Exactly.”

“You?” Talia finds herself asking. It’s not like her to pry—not without good reason—but Lyta’s left the question wide open, and there’s a familiarity here that she can’t explain where there wasn’t before.

Lyta shakes her head. “I get transferred too often for anything like that.”

“For work?” A lot of transfers aren’t necessarily a good thing in Psi Corps. Lyta looks pleased with herself, though.

"Nothing explicit,” says Lyta. “I don’t think they like keeping me in one place for too long, though.”

“What did you get transferred here for?”

Lyta beams. “Hoarding chocolate.”

“You’re _joking_.”

“I don’t joke about food.” Then, she adds, as if it had been her goal all along: “Want to come over to my quarters tomorrow? I’m trying out a few new recipes to celebrate the break. I’ll cook. I’m not terrible—I promise.”

It’s a strange situation, for certain, but Talia gets the feeling—and she and her intuition are not on the best of terms, but she tends to trust it about things like this—that Lyta’s good for what she says. “Sure. I can’t cook to save my life, though.”

“Bring some wine and we’ll call it even?” asks Lyta.

Talia nods, then quirks an eyebrow. “Wine specifically?”

“You look like a woman who knows her wine. Am I right?” Talia nods. “Telepath magic,” whispers Lyta conspiratorially. “What would you like?”

Talia thinks quickly. It’s not like there’s a kind of food she particularly _likes_. Then, she remembers the cookbook page. “Something with cinnamon?” she asks. “I don’t mind the entrée as long as there’s that in the dessert.”

“Perfect,” says Lyta. “I have just the thing.”

Talia leans in, just a hair. “Telepath magic.”

They laugh.

* * *

It’s not like Lyta even wants company—when she'd met Talia, she purposefully had angled herself away from the door. No one else takes the table for the same reason that she frequents it—she hasn’t been at this particular Psi Corps site, but it’s one of the few tricks she’s learned since she’s been here. It’s such a good spot that when Talia Winters shows up asking to sit down, she wonders if she’s thought something too offensive too strongly through her headache.

Five minutes after meeting Talia, Lyta immediately moves her into the ‘friend’ category, even before she tells her the repulsive story about her mentor—marriage is a nasty business within Psi Corps, not that Lyta would ever say that out loud, but she keeps it in her thoughts—she doesn’t care if they see that particular opinion.

Ten minutes after meeting Talia, Lyta wonders if Talia finds herself in this kind of situation often. She’s a hard person not to like—and Lyta’s in pain and not up for interaction today—and Lyta gains new respect for her. Talia’s exactly the kind of person Psi Corps would push—and push _hard_ —into PR and promotion; she’s pretty, well-spoken, and draws people in. She’s clearly having a shitty day, and she even manages to turn that around for herself. Lyta finds herself wishing she could help, and she doesn’t even know what’s wrong.

The fact that Talia’s here on a general _Psi Cops_ internship instead of stashed away in some specialized grooming program at Psi Corps Headquarters means that at some point, she had to have explicitly turned down that opportunity in favor of working in another department. It’s never wise to straight-up say no to Psi Corps, but there are ways of turning down a position without rejecting Corps principles. She’s formidable in that sense, then. It’s impressive.

Fifteen minutes after meeting Talia, Lyta feels legitimately bad for her. Lyta doesn’t play the game Talia’s found herself in—at least half of her transfers have been on purpose, to keep away the Mr. Stoners (it’s disgusting, really, how obvious he gets to make himself unchecked around here—Lyta’s heard him broadcasting his thoughts about someone—not Talia specifically, but most people knew—she tries hard to tune that out—in the hallways, basically telling everyone in earshot to keep their hands _off_ —nothing explicit of course but hardly something that would fall under the heading of “appropriate”) of the world. She can’t outrun them forever, but she can keep them away as long as she can.

Besides, this way, she gets to see more of the world. She was in the Russian Consortium before this, which was nice, if she forgets about the part where she froze her butt off in the winter.

Talia, though, sees this as she should—as part of her duty. She struggles, as Lyta did a long, long time ago, with the idea that her duty supersedes any of her individual desires (Lyta doesn’t believe this, thinks that both can work together, but that’s another thought she holds down and never speaks out loud).

This is how she finds herself cooking a three-course meal in her quarters, waiting for Talia to show up and hoping that Talia’s overwhelming classiness accommodates Lyta’s quarters, which she hasn’t had time to clean (but has had time to decorate for Christmas—Lyta _loves_ the secular part of that holiday). Her head still hurts. She takes a couple aspirin again and curses whoever decided that probing someone else’s thoughts had to hurt so damn much.

She’s just stuck everything into the oven and set the stove to simmer when her door chirps. “It’s open!” she calls.

Talia, naturally, shows up dressed for a dinner party, in some kind of sweater dress and tights, a bottle of red and white in each hand. “Sorry,” she says, blushing as she takes off her coat—Talia must live across the courtyard, then—I didn’t know what kind of meat we were having, so I prepared for either.

Lyta rushes to take her coat and drapes it over the back of her couch—Lyta’s in jeans and an old tank top, still wearing her apron. “Make yourself at home,” says Lyta. “The food’s almost ready. I know these aren’t the best quarters, but—”

To her surprise, Talia bends down, slides off her boots (after looking to Lyta for confirmation—there’s definitely no shoe rack in here—she leaves them by the door, where they manage to remain perfectly upright against the wall) and sits on the couch, rolling her head back against the cushions. “Wow, it’s beautiful in here!”

Lyta forgets sometimes that people don’t hang up quite as many lights as she does—the room is a mess of colored flashing lights. It’s not necessarily regulation, but she doesn’t turn on her regular lights during the winter to make up for it. “My family usually visits me,” Lyta explains. “The break doesn’t work with their jobs this year though—telepath family, you know.”

She realizes too late that Talia probably doesn’t, because she’s heard that Talia was raised by the Corps. Talia nods politely, though. “I was thinking of having a little holiday party on the actual Christmas day, you know? If you like that kind of thing?”

“Isn’t the Corps having their own party?” asks Talia. She’s smiling though. Lyta has somehow managed not to offend. Talia strikes Lyta as the kind of person who would let her know if she offended, subtle and quick.

“That party’s terrible,” says Lyta. She takes off her apron, hangs it up haphazardly on its hook in the kitchen, and sits down at the other end of the couch. She doesn’t have to worry about the food for at least another twenty minutes or so.

“I mean, it’s not really a party,” says Talia. “It’s kind of more of a gathering with strongly-stressed attendance?”

Lyta laughs. “Yes. I’ll go to that, then go to the after party—one of them, anyway.”

“So you know about the after parties,” says Talia, smirking just a little bit.

“They have to get their food from somewhere,” shrugs Lyta. “Sometimes my aunts help me.” She stretches a little—she always feels so _useless_ after resisting a deep scan. “How were exams?”

Talia curls her legs up next to her on the couch. “Fine.”

“You run into anyone today?”

She’s asking about Mr. Stoner, and Talia knows it—they’re subtle, even in this privacy. “No.”

Lyta nods, and Talia leans her head back again to take in the lights. Lyta lets the moment of silence pass. It feels like a privilege, almost, to see Talia like this—they’re all so buttoned up in public. She remembers the first time John Matheson opened up to her, telling her about how he dreamed of serving in the military. They’d stopped drinking vodka a while before and had their heads down on the table, but Lyta remembers the look on his face, so animated that she couldn’t help but smile.

Lyta’s never wanted to be anything but a telepath. It’s where she came from and where she’s going. She’s thankful, suddenly, that she’s at least certain in that.

Talia looks pretty against the colored lights too, like some kind of classic holiday card from a long time ago.

Twenty minutes comes too quickly, and Lyta puts her apron back on. “I hope you don’t mind the salad—I had to grow some of the vegetables myself.”

“I eat every meal out,” says Talia. “I hope you realize how cool this is. How do you get all the ingredients?”

Lyta laughs. “It helps to know people around the world for that. It helps me feel at home, you know? Something to hold onto, because—I don’t know. Nowhere really feels—” She waves her hands around. “You know?”

Talia smiles but looks sad. “Yes. I do.”

It’s pretty simple, but Talia seems to like it a lot—spaghetti, salad, and the fudge as dessert. That all requires the red, but they finish off the bottle quickly and wordlessly reach for the second bottle.

“Is it bad that I’m so full and yet so hungry still?” giggles Talia. Lyta’s washing the dishes while Talia sits at the kitchen table.

“I mean, you can eat more,” says Lyta.

“With the wine?”

“I mean, if you’re not going to drink it, bring it over here. I can’t drink and wash at the same time.”

Still giggling, Talia gets up with Lyta’s glass. “This probably qualifies as having a problem.”

Lyta turns her head to the side. “Winter holidays supersede all problems.” She opens her mouth.

Talia lifts up the glass, then thinks better of it, puts one hand on the back of Lyta’s head, and lifts the glass to her lips. Lyta takes a sip. “More?” asks Talia. She doesn’t move her hand.

Lyta nods. “I’ll tell you when.” Talia tilts the glass again, and Lyta leans into Talia’s hand and drinks a few more sips. “When,” she says, but doesn’t think it through, talking while the glass is still at her mouth, and wine splashes all over her chin. “Shit.”

“Sorry,” smiles Talia. She wipes at Lyta’s chin with her thumb—they've both taken off their gloves to eat, which isn't necessarily allowed, but it happens among peers like this. For a moment, her thumb brushes Lyta’s lip and their eyes meet, and for a moment that seems to last long enough to set alarms off in the back of Lyta’s mind, she fights the urge to turn her head toward Talia’s thumb.

She’s terrified that Talia hears her thought, but Talia turns away, to refill the glass. Lyta’s on the last plate anyway. “Um, you can sit on the couch. I’ll be there in a minute.” She hears Talia moving behind her and is glad for a moment that she can look into the plate.

She hasn’t felt like this since—since the Battle of the Line, really. She remembers waiting for evacuation transports, wanting to crawl out of her skin, _wanting_ in general.

Except in that case, she was very certain she was about to die. So was the boy she’d locked eyes with. In that moment, they’d wanted the same thing, and even Psi Corps had turned a blind eye to people’s final wishes. But Talia—

This _would_ happen to her.

This is, obviously, a sign that she’s being stupid, wishful, and lonely. She moves around too much to be able to get to know anyone too well, anyone outside her own family, that is, and her physical visits with them are limited at best.

She actually likes Talia. They click, in a differences-make-each-other better way, in the way that waves can amplify each other. But _likes likes_ —that’s complicated.

When she sits down on the couch, Talia’s gone back to eating the fudge. “It’s so good,” says Talia. “Can you make more?”

“More of this, more of different kinds,” shrugs Lyta. “I save all my chocolate for the winter. Tea for the summer, chocolate for the winter. She picks up her glass and takes a sip.

Talia leans back into the couch against Lyta’s shoulder and hums happily. “Maybe I’ll stay all winter, then.”

Lyta looks down at Talia for a sign that’s she’s joking. Talia’s not, though, and something inside Lyta twists. She pulls away. “Sorry.”

Talia pulls her back over. “For what?”

Lyta’s not going to think about it. Talia’s confused, wants to be alone, and has been singled out by someone in authority, a real sonofabitch, if Lyta has anything to say about it (and she does, always does, just never out loud). Talia’s the kind of person who just happens to be the eye of a storm—through no fault of Talia’s own, she’s managed to find herself at the center of a whole bunch of drama.

Also, they’ve _just met_. Clearly, the scan’s fucked her up more than she previously thought.

Still, Talia’s head is on Lyta’s shoulder, and they’ve gotten through two bottles of wine. “This was a good idea,” says Talia. “Thank you for inviting me.” She’s still chewing, but her eyes have gone back to the ceiling again.

She wants to say _you’re welcome_ , to match Talia’s manners (that she apparently holds onto when she’s drunk) with some of her own, but instead, because she’s way more stupid and lonely than she previously thought, she says, “You could lie down.”

Talia sits up. “Okay, but I’ll be in the back. I think I’m taller.” And then she’s pulling her dress up so she can put both legs on the couch and pulling Lyta back against her chest, and then Lyta’s watching the lights dance above them, wondering vaguely if Talia's always this intentionally snuggly or if she, Lyta, perhaps, is just losing it.

The wine is helping along the thought that none of this is real.

Except it is. And though Talia’s mind is locked down tight, there’s a whisper of a feeling slipping through, an openness, a gaping loneliness that Lyta perhaps only feels (or _hears—_ this thought feels more like a sound) because she feels the same way.

For a moment, she forgets about the rush in her chest and takes both of Talia’s hands, hugging them to herself. Talia squeezes.

“You should tell me about all the places you’ve lived, because I’ve only ever lived here and a couple places before that.”

Lyta chuckles. “I’ve been all over in different _compounds_. I’ve hardly seen the world.”

“Tell me anyway.”

She does. She talks until she’s hoarse and thinks Talia’s asleep, but when she sits up and looks down, Talia’s still listening, unblinking.

“Maybe you should get some sleep,” whispers Lyta (talking’s not happening anymore).

Talia smiles, graceful even through rumpled clothes and mussed hair. “You’re right.” She pulls her dress into place, gets up, squeezes Lyta’s shoulder.

(Lyta misses her hand as soon as it goes.)

“Can I come over again tomorrow?” she asks.

Lyta grins. “I can’t eat all this food by myself, even with the baking I’m doing for people next door.”

Talia leaves, and Lyta hugs her spare pillow to herself when she gets into bed. She’s of course aware that she feels alone, that Psi Corps is the equivalent of being alone in a crowd—she just didn’t know how much she missed the simple nearness of another person.

She falls asleep dreaming of hands in hers.

* * *

**_Mars Resistance Underground Cell, 2260_ **

Lyta lends Talia some of her own clothes because, besides the hospital gown Talia quickly discards, she doesn’t have any clothes of her own. It’s black cotton, threadbare, and hangs off her shoulders. She’s lost a lot of weight, even after Lyta’s stick-to-your-ribs home-cooked nutrition plan, and she doesn’t have clothes of her own besides the suit Control was wearing (Talia doesn’t recognize it and wouldn’t want it even if she had been able to take it with her). Lyta lends her some clothes to wear for when she’s better. They’re a little short, a little loose, and very black (had Lyta always worn such dark clothing?), but she doesn’t mind them. They're soft, and Talia relishes in that—if that makes her weak, so be it.

After the first night of sleep, which lasts nearly a whole day, they slowly get back to normal sleeping times, though neither of them get out of bed to do much and neither of them leave the room.

Sometimes, they talk.

“Kosh recorded my personality,” says Talia, as a conversation starter. They didn’t talk much toward the end of their trip because it was getting tired, but Talia needs to practice speaking again.

Talia’s turned on her side, watching Lyta in the next bed, and Lyta turns over to meet her. Talia suddenly feels like a child again, telling secrets in the dark. “Not all of it,” she says. “Key parts, triggers, if you will.”

“Reflection, surprise, terror,” says Talia. “For the future. I remember.”

“The triggers have to be inserted by a telepath, at correct points along your mind to neutralize the other personality and push it out. Of course, none of it would have worked if you hadn’t still been there.”

“If I hadn’t regained consciousness.”

“While you were gone, there was proof that even rewritten personalities retain characteristics of their original personalities.”

Talia searches through her memories, the ones that are also Lyta's, and finds that she's heard enough about the case to prove it true. She shivers. “How do I know if she’s really gone?”

“If I've learned something over the past five years, it's that nothing is certain anymore,” says Lyta, “but if anyone could find her, I could. Kosh said that, anyway.”

“It’s like he knew what would happen,” says Talia. She feels angry, but it comes out as sadness. Anger is tiring. “It’s like he knew what would happen and he let it happen anyway.”

“The Vorlons aren’t ones to interfere,” shrugs Lyta.

“Until they do.”

They’re quiet for a while after that. Talia closes her eyes, with every intention of drifting back to sleep, when Lyta speaks again, almost a whisper. “I’m sorry, by the way.”

Eyes still closed, Talia almost laughs. “For saving me from a mind prison? God, it’s like one of those horribly-constructed fairy tales we used to tell ourselves when we were kids.”

“For nearly killing you.”

Talia opens her eyes. “You didn’t implant me. Besides, I did the same thing.”

“But you weren’t yourself.”

“Then we’re even,” says Talia. She reaches across to Lyta and realizes that she’s beyond her reach.

They push their beds together and fall asleep holding hands.


	5. As Every Color Illuminates

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This started out as an explanation of how Talia and Lyta might have known each other and really turned into an exploration of how non-military Earth, telepaths in particular, would have dealt with the fallout from the Minbari War. That, in turn, actually provided a great foundation for the unique kind of bond that they end up sharing, because really no one on Earth in this reality is having a great time. Adding John Matheson in from Crusade was just too good an opportunity to pass up. (I really love him.)
> 
> Warning for drinking and war talk.
> 
> Thanks for reading!

**_Mars Resistance Underground Cell, 2260_ **

The next time they wake up, Talia feels strong enough to walk around, so she takes another cold shower, and Lyta makes a hearty meal, the kind of meal Talia never would have dreamed of consuming (telepaths burn a lot using their abilities, but she never was able to find the time to work out as much as she wanted to or should). Talia’s never been one to cook for herself, but Lyta seems to specialize in making gourmet meals on nearly no equipment and less than four ingredients.

Talia dresses in the first of the outfits that Lyta has gotten her—black slacks and a blue sweater—and sits down to eat. “What happens after this?”

Lyta joins her. “There’s a war coming, and I’m going to end up fighting in it.”

Talia searches her new memories and finds images of lightning mixed with wires and flesh, feelings of horror, the remnants of a disaster that took place far too long before for Lyta to stop it. “The machine telepaths,” says Talia. She puts down her fork. “God.”

“I think it might be nice,” says Lyta, “to fight for Earth.” She doesn’t sound sure of herself.

“What will I do?” asks Talia.

“Kosh said you’d figure out your own path.”

Talia picks her fork back up. Of course there were more questions. It wasn’t enough to acknowledge the truth. She apparently had to figure all of that out for herself. “What’s it like, being with the Vorlons?" Talia's thoughts on the Vorlons, even Lyta's, are distorted, possibly the hardest to comprehend.

A look of longing so intense comes over Lyta’s face that Talia’s almost sorry she asked the question. “Beautiful,” she whispers. “Majestic. Painful. Disrespectful. I could show you consciously, and you still wouldn’t understand.”

Talia takes Lyta’s hand across the table. “Show me. It sounds like—” She stumbles over her words. “—love.” It comes out sounding more like a question than she intends. She reaches out for Lyta's mind, and there it is— _beauty, majesty, pain, disrespect_. She’s gripping Lyta’s hand by the time she’s finished.

“Love hurts,” says Lyta.

Talia’s stomach drops. “Yes. But it shouldn’t, not like that.”

Lyta shakes her head. “You misunderstand. To bring you back, I had to—to touch your mind, all of your mind. You’ve changed.”

“You’ve changed, too.”

“What he gave you—Jason did that out of love, pure love, love that doesn’t ask for anything in return. It wasn’t like that with me.”

“I haven’t talked about it with anyone,” says Talia, remembering Jason illuminated across space.

“I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s fine,” says Talia. “I just didn’t have anyone I could talk to before.”

* * *

_**Psi Corps Academy, Transitory Unit, 2251** _

It should probably embarrass Talia that she spends so much time in Lyta’s living room, begging her for stories about the world outside. The more she hears, the more she wants to hear. She wonders when she became such a vacuum—it’s unseemly.

If she’s infringing on Lyta’s hospitality, Lyta doesn’t say anything. If anything, hospitality is an area where Lyta _thrives_. She always has food—on the stove and in her refrigerator. Her room is incredibly warm—Talia doesn’t feel the need to walk around with an extra sweater on like she does in her own. Lyta doesn’t let Talia do any of the cleaning—if anything, it makes Lyta happy to clean with someone else there to talk to her.

She’s the fastest friend Talia’s ever made.

It’s not that Talia doesn’t have _friends_. She has people she hangs out with, though it’s rare that there isn’t some kind of career-directed motive behind the friendship. She has people who will probably end up interning with her, people who she’ll have to know Later on in Her Career, people she trusts enough to hang out with without revealing the occasional stray thought that’s bound to slip out.

As far as she can tell, she and Lyta are different as day and night, and their friendship isn’t based on any of those things—she wonders if Lyta even _cares_ about those things.

Lyta has company today. His name is John, and Talia has no idea where she remembers him from, but he immediately resumes the role of Lyta’s little brother. Talia has a feeling that Lyta has a lot of self-adopted younger siblings.

“I just don’t understand how anyone makes it through the last part of the Academy,” he laments, waving his fork around. Lyta places a bowl full of the pie filling she’s been working on in front of him and moves his hand with the fork toward the bowl. Through a mouthful of cinnamon apple, he continues. “I’m not going to make it through another year. I’m just not. And I have so many years left.”

“Just think of it as a battle or something. You’re fighting through it,” says Lyta. When she waves her hands, flour puffs into the air. Talia gestures to offer her help, and Lyta waves it away.

“Not all military _fights_ , per se,” says John.

“So strategize your way through it,” says Lyta. She shrugs. “You get through it however you have to."

Talia realizes Lyta’s looking at her. “I don’t like to dwell on the past.” Lyta laughs.

John’s bowl is empty. “Um…”

“No, that was meant for you to eat!” says Lyta. “Good?” John nods. “Good. I don’t think you’ve been eating enough.”

“I eat _fine_ ,” says John. “Maybe you have me confused with Talia.” He smiles brightly at Talia.

“Smooth,” says Talia.

And that’s when she remembers how she knows John—one of the faces she can’t quite erase from her memory because she can’t quite get the _fear_ of that day out of her mind.

"John Matheson," she whispers.

John looks a little confused. "Yeah, that's my last name. Who told you?"

“Matheson, John. We were going to evacuate together,” she says to him, too suddenly, too abruptly, judging from the way that Lyta turns to look at her.

"The Minbari War," says John softly. He looks down.

“John was on the very last transport,” says Lyta. "Do you mean— _oh my God_."

Talia nods. Every human had been randomly assigned to transports leaving from different areas on Earth, because they weren’t sure which place would be hit first if ( _when_ ) the Line fell. Talia and John had been at the site closest to Earthforce and therefore would be the last to evacuate in an all-telepath group—even in a time of crisis, telepaths were kept separate.

Everyone in that group knew they were going to die.

John clears his throat. “You know what the weirdest thing about the Battle of the Line is? Almost everyone alive on Earth went through it, and yet we never talk about it.”

“We talk about the Minbari War,” says Talia gently.

“The war happened because of a misunderstanding,” says Lyta. “There’s so much we don’t know about each other.”

“You’re not scared?” asks John.

Talia doesn’t think it’s that Lyta wasn’t scared—maybe Lyta just doesn’t know (shouldn’t know—no one deserves to know) the utter terror that she and John felt, teenagers about to die (and they were most certainly going to die, because the Line wasn’t going to hold, the humans were going to fail, and they were going to be killed by something they’d never even seen, with the collective consciousness of thousands screaming in their heads with no way to stop it, because they all felt the exact same way). She remembers stealing away to the latrines to cry—not because she was going to die but because the panic bouncing around her head was all but unbearable.

She’s thought too loud, or maybe John's thought too loudly about the same thing—John’s turned away, and Lyta has tears in her eyes. Talia needs to leave the room but can’t find it in herself to move. That, and John's gloved hand is over hers.

"I volunteered to help with inventory," says John softly. It was useless thinking, packing up supplies for an escape that they all knew that they weren't going to make, but they had to prepare for it anyway. "No one wanted the job, so it was private. That's where I went to, um—" He gestures around his ears. "—to try to stop the screaming."

“I apologize," says Talia. "I don't usually talk about it—think about it, even."

“Shouldn’t have to apologize for something like that,” says Lyta. “It was the same for us—just, less than. Much less than. My whole family was separated. I didn’t know—” She clears her throat. “Like I said, it was a horrible misunderstanding.”

That was something Talia remembers being thankful for—it's the one time she was glad that she didn't have a family to be worried about. There was the Corps, of course, but she was experiencing all of their feelings first-hand.

Lyta, however, is pushing for a change in subject. Talia doesn’t have to be a telepath to see that. Lyta’s right, of course.

“People still don’t trust the Minbari,” says John.

“How can anyone after what happened?” asks Lyta.

“Bad things happen,” whispers Talia. “Sometimes you can’t do anything about it.”

“You can’t reject it, though,” says Lyta. “I just—don’t you ever want to help with that? Go out and get to know all the people out there? We’re not alone here. Might as well get over it and move on, move out."

“You want to go to space?” asks Talia. It’s something Talia’s never considered before. If she continues with Psi Cops, it’s inevitable that she’ll end up in space at some point—but living there? For long periods of time?

Lyta thinks for a moment. “Yeah, I guess I do. I think it would be dangerous but worth it.”

They’re silent for a while after that. Lyta abandons the pie crust, brings a bigger bowl of filling to the table, and they don’t talk too much for the rest of the night, except for when Lyta asks which movie they want to put on. John falls asleep on the couch, and Talia stands patiently by the sink until Lyta rolls her eyes and lets her help with the dishes. Lyta only lets her dry, but it's still comforting. She's never talked directly about the war with other people.

“I think I’m just going to let him sleep,” Lyta whisper-giggles as she’s walking Talia out. “My couch is like his second home or something—no matter where we are. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

Talia hugs her. “I think it’s cute that you still ask, like I have something else to do.” She pulls back and feels sharp pain on the side of her head.

“Shit!” squeaks Lyta, then claps her hand over her mouth. “Oh, God—”

Talia’s already working her hair out from Lyta’s earring. “Wait—hold still—” Lyta can’t, though. She’s laughing too hard. Talia gives up, wraps a hand around her hair and pulls hard.

The hair comes free, but Lyta’s mouth is also on hers, which is awkward, because Talia has one hand on Lyta’s shoulder, the other in her own hair, and one of Lyta’s hands is on her ear, which means Talia gets an elbow to her shoulder, but she still pulls Lyta to herself before she registers what’s happening.

She pulls away. Lyta looks horrified. “I’m so sorry.”

Talia sees it now—the chunk of gold hair stuck, sunburst-style, in Lyta’s earring. She works it free, lets it drop, lets her hand rest on Lyta’s cheek. She studies—really studies—Lyta’s face for the first time, the sharp and delicate angles of her face, the soft curve of her jaw. “We can forget about it, if you want.”

“Do you want to?”

Talia smiles. “Not really.”

Lyta kisses her again. It’s a little improper, with John sleeping so close by, but Talia figures if he hasn’t woken up, he’s a heavy enough sleeper to allow this.

* * *

It’s not like they’ve technically broken any rules—Talia’s not officially engaged—but Lyta still wakes up feeling unsure and jittery. She kissed Talia. _Kissed_ her. And Talia kissed her back.

And if she's straight with herself, it was kissing-bordering-on-making-out, and Lyta wishes she’d spent a little bit more time figuring out where the line between both of those was, because she’s really not sure what they were doing.

Holy shit.

It takes Lyta another moment to realize that she’s up because someone ( _John_ , it’s John because John slept here last night, thankfully through the kissing-that-might-have-been-making-out) is banging at her door—or the wall?

“Eh?” It’s supposed to come out as a _what_ , but Lyta’s not fully awake.

“Hey, your bathroom door’s locked itself, and _I really need to pee_.”

Lyta rubs her eyes. “Yeah, yeah, hold on, I just woke up.” She could talk to the computer, but she doesn’t have too much faith in her voice right now. She uses the control pad by her bed.

“Thank you!” yells John, and she hears him run and slam the door behind him.

He’s finished by the time she pulls her robe on and meets him in the hallway.

“What time did you go to bed? Are you okay? Can I have a cheese omelet?” asks John, apparently jolted awake by his rush of adrenaline.

“Uh, late, yes, and yes,” says Lyta. She rubs a hand over the back of her head. Her hair feels like crap. She pulls it up into a ponytail. She'll shower after breakfast.

“I can help!” says John.

“I kissed Talia last night,” Lyta blurts out.

John doesn’t even stop on his way to the refrigerator, opening it and peering inside. “Great,” he says. At Lyta’s silence, he turns around and closes the door, holding eggs and cheese in his arms. “Not great?” He searches Lyta’s face and his eyes widen. “Oh, wait, is she here?” he says in a stage whisper. He peers behind Lyta into her partially opened room then immediately looks away. “Oh, no, I’m sorry. I can go—”

Lyta laughs. “She went home.”

“Not great?”

Actually, given the comically clumsy way it went down, Lyta’s surprised it went off as well as it did. “Great, actually.”

John beams. “I like her, you know. She’s pretty. And smart. And didn’t go into promotions.”

“I thought the same thing."

“So she’s got a soul.”

He means it as a joke. He doesn’t know that Lyta takes it seriously. “Yes. Might be the only person here who does— _oh my God, John_ , I was including you and me in the People with Souls category.”

“No, I mean, like—um, are you dating? I don’t think I’ve ever been around you dating someone before. But wait, I heard that she’s already—”

“I don’t know what it was,” says Lyta truthfully. Needless uncertainly pulls at her a little, the kind that comes after the fact. “We’re friends. We kissed.”

“She seems like the kind of person who likes boundaries,” says John. “She’ll probably let you know. Do you want to date her?”

Lyta rubs her eyes. "Um, no." A long time ago, before the Minbari mess, Lyta had dated. She knows what that feels like. A long time ago, during the Minbari mess, Lyta had clung to a boy, not out of attraction but of desperation. She knows what that feels like. Talia is neither of those things. Lyta’s lonely, but she doesn’t long for her, and what had happened didn’t hurt. It’s just comfortable.

She's not sure how she's going to explain all of that to John. As it turns out, she doesn't have to.

“I mean, maybe you’re just friends who kiss,” shrugs John. “Where do you keep the pots?” Lyta points, and John opens the cabinet. “Gosh, is it bad I’m a little jealous? Nothing exciting _ever_ happens to me.”

Lyta walks over and takes control of the stove, ruffling his hair good-naturedly. “You’re just asking for trouble, being like that. Just stay young forever. It'll be easier for you and for me.” They laugh.

* * *

It’s the night before Christmas, and Lyta’s had the adorably classic idea of getting ready for the dinner together like it’s some kind of lower school-level dance.

There won’t be dancing at this party (almost certainly—that might be _fun_ ), but they do have to dress nicely, evening cocktail attire, in dresses that the Corps hasn’t seen before (they’ve both shopped for this months in advance, and Talia finds that this somewhat disproportionately annoys Lyta). Talia’s wearing a black-and-cream lace full length gown—the sleeves only go to her elbows, but she’s switching out her wrist gloves for black ones that go up to her elbow. The back dips a bit but just enough to be fashionable (she’ll most likely end up having to wear her coat inside—the facilities are so cold in the winter). The only thing she hasn’t decided on is the jewelry—she takes her whole collection to Lyta’s room.

Lyta answers the door already wearing her purple gown. Her hair is up in a towel, and she’s wearing bunny slippers.

“I’ve got—I don’t know—rum or something on the table,” says Lyta by way of greeting. She must have just pulled on her dress when Talia rang the door, because she’s still pulling the sleeve up.

“A one-shoulder dress?” asks Talia, touching the end of Lyta’s one sleeve, long and floaty, stretching nearly to her wrist.

“One wrist glove, one shoulder glove,” says Lyta, sounding pleased with herself.

“Daring,” says Talia.

“Nice back,” replies Lyta, with a sideways glance. They’ve settled into a kind of flirty banter relationship post-kiss, not that Talia minds—she’s sure Lyta would bring something up if she’d felt something wrong. Really, the whole thing is nice and uncomplicated. The only thing that has changed is that they take a lot more liberties with each other’s personal space. (Mostly, they cuddle on Lyta’s couch, eat too much, and doze off watching mystery movies.)

The party is predictably dull, but Talia makes the rounds she should. When Matt Stoner kisses her hand, he accidentally-on-purpose lets a thought slip that makes Talia wish (irrationally so, because she’s covered nearly neck to foot) that she was wearing more clothes. She says nothing.

(She hates that there’s a very small part of her that likes the attraction. She just wishes it didn’t make her feel so helpless at the same time.)

John’s there, of course (“You can have me and Talia _both_ as dates!” Lyta had squeaked at him, and Talia had watched as they did some kind of skippy dance in her living room), and has somehow managed to get a _sprig of actual holly_ onto his lapel. He’s managed to sneak mistletoe up in the side hallway to the bathroom (in a way that only he can, John has managed to make this act completely about kindness, a chance for people to speak up—or not—and not even a little bit about playing a practical joke), and Talia joins him and the small group of people finding excuses to hang out near the exit, which is about as close enough to the hallway as they can get without admitting that they’re just watching people awkwardly decide how much they’re going to play to the mistletoe tradition.

There’s nothing else to do at this party, and Talia feels better when she can’t feel the eyes on her in the room at this point. It’s too early to leave, though—they have no excuse.

She doesn’t notice Lyta appear (she hasn’t actually seen Lyta in a while—how much time had Lyta actually spent at this party?). “Hey,” she says. “What are all of you—” She looks down the hallway. “ _Nice_.”

“They haven’t taken it down yet,” says John, sounding pleased. “I think it’s their form of a holiday gift.”

“Well,” says Lyta, face full of mischief, “unless you’re all waiting in line, it’s snowing outside."

They take their coats and follow her outside for reasons ranging from excitement at the actual snow to a general desire to leave the party.

It’s not the first snow, but it’s the first snow in a while, and they walk through it for a little while, away from Psi Corps, out onto the street where normals walk, taking in the same scene. They’re not really supposed to, but the nice thing about winter is that everyone wears gloves and they’re a little looser with the confinement rules around the holidays. Lyta, Talia, John, and the other two people (Jennifer and Dante? She meets too many people at these parties) with them have the usual agreements to put their jackets on over their badges (to save time, of course).

Talia’s dress is designed for the chill, and her coat is warm, but she feels the chill on the tops of her feet after a few steps. Lyta links arms with her. “Nightcap?” she asks.

Talia blinks. “Yes, a whole bottle of wine, right in the pockets of my dress.”

Lyta rolls her eyes. “Let’s go buy something. Unless you want to go back and get it?”

“I don’t want to go back inside.”

Lyta smirks at that. “There may be hope for you yet, Ms. Winters,” she says. Talia rolls her eyes.

That’s how they get the eggnog—it’s no one’s first choice, but it’s cheap and not sold in a glass bottle. They sit in the park and pass it back and forth, watching the powder pile up around them.

“It’s coming down fast,” John says. “We should go in soon.” But he tilts his head back and sticks out his tongue.

“I think we can stay a little while longer,” says Lyta. It’s certainly beautiful, and the unmelted snow has arranged itself nicely in Lyta’s hair.

“We’ll finish the drink,” says Talia, passing the carton back to John. She smiles wide. “It’s only fair. Drink faster.” Maybe-Jennifer crows in delight, and Maybe-Dante pulls her a little more firmly into his lap.

“Yes, all of it,” says Lyta, pulling a flask out of her coat pocket.

John takes his eyes off the sky to raise an eyebrow. “Seriously?” But he holds out the carton.

The Maybes takes flasks out of their jackets.

John turns to Talia. “I’m guessing you brought one too?”

Talia shakes her head. “But the alcohol at that party is as terrible as the actual party.” She holds out her hand for a drink. “Lyta, for the record, this idea is a disgrace,” she says, but she can’t keep the corners of her mouth from turning up.

The snow’s collecting around their knees when they walk back, a snowball fight later. They all laid down in the snow afterwards, the world haze-bright and beautiful around them. It’s really time to go in, and they go their separate ways. Maybe-Dante and Maybe-Jennifer are maybe making out? Talia can’t remember when they peeled off from the group. John is running down the street silently, arms outstretched like that of a bird’s. Talia slips sideways a little and bumps into Lyta, who links arms with her again. “After party in my room?”

“We’re already drunk. It’s just us.”

“You want to end the evening on a classy note, through,” says Lyta. “And I’ve seen you drunk. You’re not drunk.”

Talia raises an eyebrow. “I’ll bring a flask for you next time.”

Lyta buries her head in Talia’s shoulder and laughs. “I was talking about you.”

Talia is struck, not for the first time, by how endearing she is. She wraps an arm around Lyta’s shoulders, and they walk like that, together, through the deserted building (they can go around, but it’s getting to the point where it’s past cool and approaching stupid to be outside). The party’s over and already cleaned up, but Lyta stops just short of the door to the next building.

Talia’s feet, cold and in a pair of shoes that are still in the breaking-in stage, just _hurt_ at this point, so she almost runs into the door. “What?”

Lyta points up to the mistletoe above their heads, and Talia laughs—partially because of the altered eggnog, partially because she’s _freezing_ , partially because this moment like the whole night seems like part of a dream, and partially because Lyta’s unexpectedly waiting for _her_ to figure out what to do, which is funny, because Talia doesn’t hesitate—it’s tradition, after all—she cups Lyta’s cool cheek in her hand and kisses her.

She means it to be half-friendly, half-experimental. It’s not until she feels Lyta’s mind against hers, a familiar emptiness, crippling loneliness that echoes her own (she hates that she craves so much—it’s not normal, except Lyta apparently feels the same way), that she realizes that this is something else entirely.

The kiss is deep, both of them clinging tightly to each other, half out of need and half because the snow’s melting in their hair and it’s _freezing_.

Talia doesn’t think in possibilities. She goes where the Corps tells her to go. She has little say in how to get there, but she’s generally traveling in one direction. Every surprise is balanced out by the knowledge that she’s on a set trajectory dictated by loyalty and duty.

That said, she’s pretty sure a drunken, graceless make out session with Lyta Alexander (because that’s what this has become, her hands in Lyta’s hair, Lyta’s knee between Talia’s thighs, in evening gowns, against the wall, covered in melting snow) has taken that trajectory and thrown it sideways and around the bend.

For a number of reasons that she’s certain they won’t discuss, both of them have let their mental walls slip just a little. Lyta’s want rubs up against hers like a cat that wants to be petted. Talia doesn’t mind it. She doesn’t want to admit it, but she just _wants_ right now, and she’s pretty sure it’ll work out alright between them, but Lyta’s made her decision. All that’s left is for Talia to make hers, and there’s still the possibility that this might be a terrible idea.

Lyta’s somehow managed to undo Talia’s jacket (or maybe she never buttoned it?) and is sliding her hands down Talia’s bare back. Talia tries to remember the last time she’s had so much skin on hers and shudders (well, that’s excusable—it _is_ cold).

“I’m cold,” says Lyta, except it’s more of a whimper (her mouth hits Talia’s cheekbone as Talia pushes Lyta’s hair back to kiss behind her ear, and Talia grips the curve of Lyta’s waist a little tighter).

Talia decides to trust.

“Let’s go, then,” she says, right in Lyta’s ear, and she feels Lyta’s shiver right up against her mental walls.

* * *

They make out shamelessly on Lyta’s couch, too, the messy kind of making out, the kind where no one gives a damn where their tongues are going and if it looks pretty. Lyta’s shoulder glove slips down to her elbow, and she’s pulling Talia’s hands to her chest to _touch her for real, dammit_ , except Talia’s leg is slung over both of Lyta’s in an abandoned attempt to get their dresses up above their knees (and in Talia’s case, her shoes off). Lyta’s back’s cramping, but she can ignore that for a moment, because Talia’s running her thumb over where the sleeveless side of her dress meets her skin, and Lyta just wants _more._

Talia’s the sensible one, of course, and pulls away first. “We should probably—”

She’s talking about their clothes. Apparently Talia didn’t get her dress secondhand on sale.

They pull themselves up on their knees and resume. Talia manages to get one of her shoes off before Lyta kisses her again—Lyta can’t help it. Something in her _gives_. She pulls Talia’s dress up to the top of her thighs, slides a knee between them, backs her up against the back of the couch, and slides Talia’s sleeve down.

Lyta’s hands are running over the lace strip of fabric by Talia’s hips when she thinks to ask. “Do you think,” sighs Lyta, “that we can do this and not have it be, like, some kind of huge—” She sighs, tries to find the words, because she really doesn’t want to screw this up. “—deal?”

Talia’s eyes are wide, dark blue. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. It’s an extension of friendship. Nothing weird about that.” Then her hand’s between Lyta’s legs, and she’s gasping, presumably because Lyta never bothers with underwear ( _such a damn hassle in these fucking dresses_ ) with her formalwear.

There’s an awkward moment when they’re trying to figure out how to balance—Talia’s wearing the proper kind of underwear (not-underwear underwear), but Talia wraps an arm around Lyta’s shoulders, and then Lyta’s leaning her head back and _crying out_ as Talia pushes her fingers into place, and Lyta follows—Talia closes her eyes at that point and—

And something’s wrong because Lyta’s _drowning_ (with Talia’s fingers working against her in the background) in Talia’s thoughts and trying her best to _hold on_ because they’re mixing with her own ( _abandonment, uncertainty, belonging, desolation, longing_ —she stops trying to name them after a while).

How is she supposed to breathe? (The question, admittedly, is becoming less and less of a concern.)

“Lyta—Lyta— _Lyta_.” Lyta opens her eyes with difficulty and finds herself staring into Talia’s. “You okay?” Talia’s cheeks are flushed, and her voice is straining, but the flow of thoughts in Lyta’s head slows.

Lyta forces herself to make words, not thoughts. “Yeah. I just—I ‘ve never—” She knows about this, of course, the intimacy that can happen between telepaths. It’s just never happened to her before. She’s had sex before, of course, because she was lonely or not thinking (or, in the case of the Battle of the Line, thinking _way too much_ ), but she’s never been swimming in someone else’s mind before. It’s overwhelming.

She feels something, then, the equivalent to Talia clearing her throat, except in her thoughts—she’s asking for permission, Lyta realizes. Talia’s politeness truly knows no bounds. Lyta would laugh if she remembered how.

 _It’s okay, go ahead_ , thinks Lyta, and somewhere in the sea that is Talia’s mind, Lyta knows that Talia’s done this before, and she tries to hold back the fact that this has never happened before even though she knows that in a few minutes, they’re not going to have secrets anymore.

_This is, um, easier if you look at me. It feels like—it feels intense, but it’s bearable. Unless—_

Maybe this is only happening because they’re both lonely, and maybe that’s not the way this should happen (Lyta has friends who talk about this, some kind of end-all-be-all expression of love, though Lyta doesn’t know if anyone thinks with that kind of naivety post-war), but Lyta doesn’t want to stop. She kisses Talia, hard, and the thoughts are coming again, quickly, mixing with her own.

She listens to Talia, fixes her eyes on her face like some kind of anchor, and lets go. Her wrist is cramping, and Talia’s cheekbones are hard against her shoulder, but they’re trying to do this together (there’s no reason not to, when you’re in someone’s head like this), but just— _there_.

Lyta comes, _laughing_ of all things, and Talia’s screaming somewhere in the distance (internally, Lyta’s pretty sure, but she can’t quite focus on any one thing—her senses are just _so much_ ).

They don’t move for a while, heads resting on each other’s shoulders, tulle on their gowns digging honeycomb patterns into their thighs.

Talia’s talking, quickly, as soon as she can find her voice. “I’m sorry—I didn’t, um, I didn’t know that would happen, or that it hadn’t happened before.” She pulls back and looks at Lyta. “Are you okay?”

Lyta expects to feel some kind of regret. She doesn’t. She nods.

Talia smiles, then, for the first time, seems to take in the scene around her. “We didn’t even get undressed.”

Lyta rolls her eyes, and, in a sudden rush of courage (she just _feels_ sexy all of a sudden), looks square at Talia, and lifts her dress up and over her head. “You’re such a snob. At least I took both my shoes off.”

Talia grins. “We’re pretending that you didn’t start this whole thing, you and the lights and the eggnog and the mistletoe—”

“—John did that all on his own, though I should probably thank him—”

“Are we agreed on this point, though?"

Lyta stands. “We’re going to bed.”

“Cutting off the argument doesn’t mean you win it,” says Talia, but she’s tired. She lets Lyta help her up, carefully unties what’s left of her dress, and leaves it draped across the back of the couch.

* * *

Talia wakes up to Lyta yanking at the covers—Talia’s taken all of them in the night—and a need for _a lot of water right now_. Lyta nods to the bottle on the nightstand (so hospitable, even back then). Talia drinks all of it. That’s when she realizes they’re both naked, and the night comes flooding back to her. She laughs out loud.

“Oh, yes, it’s very funny, me freezing to death,” says Lyta, teeth chattering. Her skin is cold against Talia’s, but Talia wraps her arms around her anyway, waits for them to hit a temperature equilibrium.

Lyta’s still shivering when she speaks, voice suddenly small. “So are we okay?”

It never occurred to Talia that they wouldn’t be, though she’s learned in her time in Lyta’s head that Lyta has marginally less experience than she does with these kinds of things. “Of course.”

“I’m not really sure what happened last night,” says Lyta. “I think I was just—”

“Lonely,” says Talia quietly, because that was probably the most intense part of their experience, something common she felt even before they’d been as close as they were. She pushes Lyta’s hair away from her face. “I get that way too.” She smiles a little because she can’t help it. “I don’t feel that way now.”

Lyta swats at her (barely a tap) and laughs again. “When I feel like a person again, I’ll make you breakfast. The most amazing hangover food, in my opinion, and even if you’re not hungover, you can pretend you are and eat a lot of it.”

Talia’s exhausted, but she can tell even now that she’s going to be ravenous. She closes her eyes and hums in approval. She rolls over on her back, and Lyta snuggles up next to her. “I’m probably going to get transferred after this.”

“For kissing me in public when someone’s already called dibs?” asks Lyta. “Probably.” She sighs, and because Talia would never say it herself, adds, _It’s not fair.  
_

“For the record,” says Talia, “this was worth it. Peace of mind, you know.”

_The sex wasn’t that bad either._

_You think?  
_

Lyta wakes up at that remark, because there’s enough uncertainty behind it. The look she gives Talia is one of pure incredulity. “Have you ever _seen_ you drunk? It’s kind of hot.” Talia blinks. “You do this distressed mistress thing, and then you roll around in the snow.”

Talia is appalled. “I did not _roll_. You were the one who would have stayed out there all night if John wasn’t reminding you that we might, I don’t know, _die_.”

“John had a good time. Besides, you’re going to be a married woman soon. Should celebrate your time while it lasts.”

“Oh my _God_.” And then Talia can’t stop laughing, which is how they end up kissing again (presumably, Talia thinks, to make her be quiet) until they come to a mutual silent (mostly—they talk pretty freely in each other’s heads now) agreement to go back to sleep. “Seduction eggnog,” murmurs Talia, when she’s half-conscious.

“You’re never going to let this go, are you?”

“It’s life-saving information.”

Lyta turns, backs up against Talia and sighs when Talia wraps her warms around her. She takes Talia’s hand and holds it over her bare breast. “ _Oh my God_. Do you even want breakfast?”

“I think denying someone food would hurt you more than it would hurt me.”

It’s the first time that Talia’s ever laughed herself to sleep.

* * *

Talia gets the notice for transfer via video a week after they all resume work. She gets her evaluation results, which are all satisfactory, and a notice that she’s getting transferred to Mars, where she’ll start her internship and remain until further notice.

Lyta laughs when Talia tells her. “They want to put a whole planet between us? I’m impressed.”

“This is only the second time I’ve ever been transferred,” says Talia. She feels shaken in a way that she can’t describe. She just doesn’t like it, like something foundational around her is being taken down. “Pretty sure Matt’s going too.”

Lyta’s eyes flicker at her use of his first name, but she doesn’t say anything. “How much time do you have?"

“A week.”

Lyta sighs. “I guess we’ll make the best of it? I’m going to cover this place in muffins.”

Talia joins her in the shower that night, and they both nearly choke on water when Lyta pulls her against the wall. They sit on the shower floor afterwards, gasping.

“Where did that come from?” asks Lyta, hand at her throat, laughing.

Talia blinks through the streams of water coming down her face. “I’ve never had a friend like you before.”

 _Apparently I haven’t either_ , Lyta thinks through another coughing fit. _You are evil_.

Lyta sends her off with enough sweets for a month and kisses her goodbye for just a little too long at her shuttle. Talia tries not to laugh while people stare. She swears she sees John raise his arms up in the air out of the corner of her eye.

A few years later, Lyta’s assigned away from Babylon 5 because of some kind of accident, Talia’s in her mid-twenties and divorced, and she, in a move that makes her sure she's  _lost her mind_ , signs up to replace her.

* * *

**_Mars Resistance Underground Cell, 2260_ **

Talia awakens, startled, and feels Lyta jerk awake on the other side of the bed. They're sleeping back to back, and when they turn toward each other, it's nearly in tandem.

Talia knows what's happened almost immediately, but Lyta speaks first. "Same dreams? The Corps at Christmas?"

Talia claps a hand over her mouth. "Oh, God."

Lyta blinks. "Yeah, it's pretty weird. Must be a side effect of the extraction."

"How long will it last?" asks Talia.

Lyta sits up, pushes her hair out of her face, and pulls on her robe. "I have no idea. There's no one who's really done what we've done before. Could be short-term. Could be forever."

"I'm so sorry," says Talia.

"It's not your fault." Lyta finds what (must be) her improbably large bag and pulls out a box. "I've got powdered milk in a bunch of different flavors with a full batch of vitamins and minerals in it. The chocolate one's the least offensive." Talia nods. "I understand if you're uncomfortable around me, though."

"I'm not," says Talia immediately, sitting up. "I just _—_ every dream?"

Lyta turns the milk heater on and sits down at the foot of the bed. "I don't think so. I think it's just the memories we have of being physically together." Talia giggles. "Oh, _honestly_."

"We were so silly back then," says Talia.

"Silly and sad," agrees Lyta. "I don't think we realized how much. And now we're going to war again."

The heater beeps, which is good, because Talia doesn't know what to say to that. Too many agains.

"How do you know it's just the ones we're in together?" asks Talia.

Lyta finishes stirring and brings both mugs to the bed. Talia pulls her knees to her chest and takes the mug. They toast wordlessly and sip. Lyta shifts to where she's sitting cross-legged at Talia's feet. "Um, I wake up sometimes while you're sleeping _ _—__ not because of the nightmares, though." They wake each other up for nightmares. That's their deal. Neither of them needs to experience those longer than they have to. “You, um, call things out in your sleep. Lots of names. Mostly her name.”

  _Susan_. Talia suddenly feels exhausted. “I know you saw,” she says, touching a hand to her forehead. “You don’t have to be polite.” They’ve never kept a lot of secrets from each other on the first place, and now, Talia thinks that she’d be perfectly comfortable not having secrets from Lyta ever again.

“You’re allowed to miss her,” says Lyta.

“Am I?” asks Talia. “It’s one memory, and it happened so long ago.”

“For you, it was basically yesterday,” Lyta tells her, voice uncharacteristically gentle. “It’s okay to feel that way.”

Talia shakes her head. “She didn’t—I mean, with good reason—I didn’t give her any reason to trust me.”

“She’s alright, you know. Stressed, scared, but alright. She manages.”

Talia aches. “Yes,” she says, then swallows, because the last time this name was in her voice, it wasn’t her, was all wrong, came out dripping with contempt and mockery when Talia associated it with comfort, home. “Susan endures.” Present tense. She doesn’t add that Susan _had endured_ , _will endure_ —Talia’s on her second lifetime, and Susan’s still surviving, from what Talia's gathered from Lyta—thriving, even—in the world that was so determined to take everything away from her.

Susan endures. She doesn’t remember when this became one of her personal truths, but it is now. One year later.

“We all do what we have to,” says Lyta. Talia wonders why she’s staying here with her, why she didn’t just leave her with some supplies and go back to her job and her life. Lyta is broken in the way that glass is broken—the pieces of her that are left are damaging, sharp. Talia’s broken in a different way, in a way that's made her a liquid, like water slipping through cupped hands.

They finish their drinks. Lyta takes the mugs, and Talia’s eyes are heavy, so Talia lies down first. She opens her arms for Lyta, but Lyta pauses, sitting on the edge of their makeshift bed. “Is it alright to be like this?” she asks. “I don’t want to make it worse, all the weird stuff happening right now—” She looks lost for words after that, and Talia almost wants to laugh. It’s not like this particular part of her love life (she questions it as real sometimes, and then she falls asleep and _dreams_ it, and it’s real because it’s happening, until she wakes up and finds out that the tenses and her memories are all wrong) falls under a simple descriptive heading.

Of course, Lyta is okay. She’s more than okay. Every moment without contact that Talia remembers (she remembers weeks, but those two weeks have taken place over a year and a half, and Talia finds herself running her hands along anything she can touch, even if it’s just her hands clasping, because even that is feeling, and she’s been deprived of that for so long) inches too close to her too-recent past when she couldn’t feel anything. She feels like a child, always wanting to be held, which is silly, because that’s a need she should have stamped out of herself (that she thought she’d stamped out of herself) when she was young.

Perhaps that’s another side effect of her situation, this regression to immaturity. She was, in a sense, born again. She thinks of the Minbari and their love of metaphors and wonders what Delenn or Lennier would say about her situation.

Talia reaches out for Lyta’s waist. She’s drained. Her head is buzzing, and she wants the kind of comfort that comes without words, mental or otherwise. “You know, I’ve always carried a burning torch for you,” she says, and her voice sounds tired but not too tired to kill the clear wryness in her tone.

Lyta laughs and lies back, settling herself in Talia’s arms. “I knew it. It’s the hair, you know. Redheads are irresistible.”

She doesn't know how much time passes after that—certainly enough time to where Lyta should be back asleep, but Talia says it because she has to say it anyway, because if she doesn't say it, she might decide against it when she wakes up, and she's into taking action—any kind of action—these days.

"I think I want to help you with the war," Talia says quietly, so quietly that she can barely hear it herself, except her breath warms the spot of Lyta's hair next to her mouth.

Lyta goes rigid in her arms. She wasn't asleep after all. "Are you sure?"

She's not sure of anything these days, and Lyta knows it. "Yes."

"Then we'll talk when we next wake up."

Talia falls into a dreamless sleep and doesn't notice that Lyta lies awake for hours after that.


	6. Let Loss Reveal It

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A belated birthday present. :)

_**Minbar, 2360** _

Great-Gram clears her throat. “I think I’m going to need some water. You want something, dear? Dear?”

Mara has managed to sit up somewhere in the middle of the story, and her eyes are wide. “In Valen’s name.”

Great-Gram retrieves two glasses of ice water and places one beside Mara. “What about him?”

“I don’t want to talk about, um, _soul-mixing_ with you,” stammers Mara. She picks up the glass and holds it to her cheek.

“Why not?” asks Great-Gram. Mara checks her face. She’s serious.

“Because it’s _awkward_.”

“If we only told the clean parts of stories, I don’t think we’d learn anything,” says Great-Gram. “Besides, it’s more common than you think.”

Mara makes a sound of disgust, but she’s also trying to hold back her laughter. “And that was that important?”

“How else would you understand how Lyta could save Talia?”

“I mean, she was the most powerful telepath ever, right? Or shared it with Talia. Or something—I don’t know. I’m still trying to get used to the part where Talia lives.”

Great-Gram shrugs. “Ordinary things turn out to be extraordinary all the time. And that’s why, when you start thinking about maybe—”

“— _I’ve had this talk already_. Twice because Mom was off-planet the first time and Dad thought he could do it on his own—”

“Yeah, how many times do you think I’ve given it?” chuckles Great-Gram. “We don’t appreciate doing it, but we care about you. Humor me.” Mara takes a big gulp of water. “Just be careful. Your mind is a beautiful thing, but it’s also a vulnerable place. You’re not going to want to share it with just anyone.”

Mara hadn’t been planning on it. “Okay.”

“But don’t be scared. It’s very nice, especially when it’s good—”

“Great-Gram!”

“Alright, I’ll go back to the story. Just remember this someday, alright?”

* * *

_**Mars Resistance Underground Cell, 2260** _

Lyta explains everything to Talia thoroughly, with lots of pauses, like she’s sure that Talia’s going to back out at some point. When Talia doesn’t, Lyta just holds her hands. They don’t need to touch to talk anymore, but Talia thinks that maybe it’ll take her a long time for the gesture in and of itself to stop feeling like something monumental.

She doesn’t have to check to know that at least one part of Lyta does too.

She hopes that Lyta doesn’t think this is her being noble. The truth is that Talia’s not sure what else to do—she feels she’s obligated to, even though Earth hasn’t felt like home in such a long time, with or without the time discrepancy in her mind. She’s very sure that she needs to move (now that she _can_ move—she’s healing nicely, and she’s feeling antsy). She can’t be idle anymore, not with everything that’s happened. Not with everything _happening_.

She, however, immediately objects to letting anyone from Babylon 5 know she’s alive.

“You know how they are about trust,” she tells Lyta, looking at her through the mirror in front of her, fiddling with her hair, which Lyta’s helped her dye black. If she’s going to hide, start a new life, she has to be completely cleansed—of badge, of gloves, of her hair. Everything that’s ever distinguished her apart from anyone else. “They’re never going to trust me, and we don’t have too much time to explain anyway. Besides, they’ve moved on.” If Lyta hears the very obvious catch in her throat, she’s gracious enough not to say anything. “It’s better this way.” Her hair’s longer now, and she pulls it back into a ponytail so tight it hurts. It’s been years since she had her hair up. It’s always been too thin, and Psi Corps had always wanted her to wear it down anyway. She was pretty, they told her. It would make her more welcoming, which she was. It was closest to her true self.

Now, her scalp feels tight and there are more angles on her body when she looks into the mirror than she remembers. Talia thinks that’s okay. It makes her feel brave.

She’s not sure who she is these days, but she figures actively trying to figure that out is better than nothing. She starts with what she knows, what she feels to be true. She is alive. She is a telepath. She is stronger than she thinks. Lyta is her friend. Psi Corps has betrayed her. Susan endures.

“It’s going to be hard, then,” says Lyta, “logistically, I mean. Also, that means that the less time you spend with me, the better. There's less of a chance of people finding out if I'm with you." She frowns. "Actually, it's probably safer if we're apart."

Talia shakes her head. “I go with you for the war, then we'll split up. You’ll have to step outside for a moment for it to work. I’ll be there, a second power supply for you. Support. And—and—” She’s bad at the language of war.

She also really doesn't want to leave Lyta.

“—and if I fall, you take over,” says Lyta.

“A real secret weapon,” smiles Talia. She gives her ponytail one last yank, then turns around.

Lyta, however, still looks curious. “This doesn’t have to be your war, you know,” she tells Talia. “If anything, it’s quite the opposite. I don’t want you to be risking your life for nothing.”

“I mean, at the very least, I’m risking my life for you,” says Talia. “You’re my friend. I owe you everything.”

“You owe me nothing.”

Talia tilts her head, then nods. “You’re right. I owe you nothing. I want to do this.”

“Then I’ll be back in a week,” says Lyta. Her bags are packed by the door. “No one should recognize you, but I’ll be coming back with Babylon 5 personnel, so you’ll need to stay out of sight. I’ll tell you when to come out.”

“I'll probably feel you here before I hear you,” says Talia, pointing her her head.

Lyta picks up her bag and stops. “We may not see each other again after the war for a while, if we both survive. When I get back, things are going to move very fast.”

“This is goodbye?” asks Talia, standing.

“For now,” says Lyta. “I doubt that we’ll be apart for too long.” She shakes her head. “I feel like I’m tied to you, if not by the Vorlons, then something else.” For a moment, her face crumbles, a feeling far too familiar to Talia. “I think maybe we’re all tied to something—you, me, Sheridan, Franklin—I can’t see it, you know? I can’t see it, and it scares me.”

Even when it was thrown into her face, Talia had trouble seeing herself as important. Even now, after everything that’s happened, when an old lover had deemed her worth a gift, when some god-like advanced upper race had deemed her worth saving, when Susan who’d sworn to have nothing to do with her people, the people who killed her mother, had deemed her worth touching, she has trouble believing she’s of any importance of all. “I’m having trouble seeing past tomorrow, but yes, I think I understand,” says Talia.

Lyta puts a hand on her hip. “You know, when I came onto Babylon 5 a year ago, I really thought that you and I were just going to treat each other like colleagues.”

“I thought the same thing.”

“We never were.” They laugh. “I don’t know. It sounds a little silly, but you’ve kind of become my best friend over these past few weeks.”

Talia can’t help but laugh. “With the hallucinogenic dreams and the screaming and the thought-sharing?”

“You know what I mean.”

Talia hugs her. “You’re my best friend too. Now, get back to Babylon 5 before they start wondering where you spend all of your time.”

Then, Lyta’s gone, and Talia prepares for battle.

* * *

 

_**Mars, 2260** _

The battle is hell. Talia’s mind is surrounded by hot lightning and screaming, which is almost too close to a couple of other things Talia remembers, and she tries not to think about it ( _this isn’t about her_ ).

She can’t see Lyta because her head is full of images of people mixed with machine, someone else’s one-way perversion of life that they’re using because what they can’t fix, they use to fight. At one point, though, she gets a flash of Lyta, exhausted, sweating, nose bleeding. She’s left just enough of a thread out there for Talia to grab onto and hold, and they have shoulders to lean on while machines scorch the sky above them and the earth shakes around them.

When she and Lyta talk about it later, Lyta sitting in a ball on the floor, arms around her knees, they agree that they can’t even remember particular actions that either side took—there was just _heat_ and _light_ and _fear_ and _screaming_.

Between them, though, the horror is halved.

Talia can’t be here for long, and the part that she spends here she spends out of sight, which means that she may not see Lyta again.

She hears her, though.

_I have to go back to Babylon 5. Take care of yourself. Where will you go? Actually, wait. It’s better if I don’t know. Talia--  
_

_You too, Lyta_. She manages to keep the sadness out of her message, just barely.

Then, Lyta is gone. Everyone leaves soon after that, and Talia is alone.


	7. Between the Words We Spoke

_**[Undisclosed], 2262** _

One of the last few gifts Lyta has for her is a modest amount of credits in a near-anonymous intergalactic account (courtesy of, Talia assumes, Lyta herself—the Vorlons haven’t been around anymore, and Talia wouldn’t have accepted it if Lyta had given this to her while she was here, which is probably why she waited until she’d left). Talia’s careful, pays when possible where things can’t be traced. She buys herself a new wardrobe—flexible pants and fitted jackets, sturdy boots, thin long-sleeved shirts in comfortable fabrics, bras that fit right for the first time in months. She buys a backpack to carry everything in and leaves her old clothes behind. 

She looks a far cry from the tailored persona she used to carry—she can’t remember the last time she wore pants—but she looks crisp, clean, and forgettable, and she decides she likes that.

She travels as far out as she can but takes care to detour every once in a while. There’s plenty of confusion regarding Earth’s surrender. She gets the news when she can but tries not to inquire too much. She learns about ISA, Sheridan and Delenn, Earth’s new president. She hears rumors of a group of rogue telepaths on a planet in neutral territory and gets a man with a misplaced savior complex to take her there for free.

She has to look around for a while, scan a little bit, but she eventually locks onto a young telepath’s thoughts. There’s not many of them—ten or so—but they’re squatting in an abandoned warehouse. She has to prove herself to them, but once that’s over, they don’t ask too many questions. They don’t even use real names. Their leader introduces herself as Clarity and explains that they’ve been stuck on the planet and barely made it off the last planet alive—their last leader was killed in the escape. They’re in need of medication, but she’s taken a few lessons from Lyta—most of her pack is full of food rations, water, medication, and first aid supplies, all optimally packed for space.

“You’re lucky, that’s for sure,” she tells Talia. “What may I call you?”

She hadn’t thought about that. Her mind races, fringe words she’d know. Fringe words she’d remember. She thinks about whispers in the dark, lips against her ear. “Zima,” she says.

“You’re Russian,” says Clarity, smiling. “Beautiful name.”

“Maybe,” says Talia, with a conspiratorial wink. Clarity laughs, and they set to work cleaning wounds, changing bandages.

She’s bad with the sight of blood, but with the different clothes, hair, and name, Talia can believe that she’s someone else entirely. It’s liberating and makes her sick, but she changes bandages, wiping the blood off her hands with every new patient. Four of them are children.

The group wants to know information, and Talia wonders if she should have made a stronger effort to gather some. She tells them what she knows—that everything’s up in the air right now.

“Then it’s a good time to move,” says one of the older children, a girl who can’t be more than sixteen years old. Talia looks at her in surprise. The girl fixes her with a look that reminds her of Susan so acutely that somewhere in her core, she shivers. 

The group is doing alright on food, and it’s getting late, so they settle down for the night. They sleep in one room—it’s safer if they’re all together. Talia makes her bed—a thin mattress, blanket, and pillow—by a wall. She sits down but doesn’t sleep. 

She notices that a lot of those around her are doing the same thing. She feels a thought at the edge of her mind, pushing gently. Across the room, a little boy crawls toward her hesitantly. 

Talia smiles at him. “You know it’s not polite to do that,” she tells him. She looks around the room for his parents. Clarity meets her eyes and shakes her head slowly. _We’re all his parents now_ , she tells her. Talia reaches out her arms, and he crawls into her lap.

“Do you have stories?” he asks her.

When Talia looks around the room, she realizes everyone is staring at her. There’s no way they could know that the only stories she thinks about now are horror stories.

She knows she has to try.

It helps that she’s technically not herself right now. She decides that Zima is good at telling stories.

“Once upon a time,” she begins, trying to sound more confident than she feels, “there lived a human girl.”

“Like me?” asks one of the other young children, a young girl with hair pulled back in several braids.

Talia smiles. “Yes.” The boy on her lap looks a little disappointed with this information. “It wasn’t happy for her at first, because she was born into a high tower, far away from everyone else. She didn’t know she was in a tower, though, because she wasn’t allowed to look out the windows.”

“Why?” asks the little boy.

“They told her that there was a lot of danger outside the windows,” says Talia. “Everything was happy enough within the tower, so she believed them. They gave her food, clothes, friends.”

“That’s silly,” says the little boy.

Talia realizes that Clarity is staring at her intently. “Yes,” says Talia, careful to keep her expression neutral. “Yes, I guess it is.”

“Sometimes, they’d let her walk the garden, where she’d meet the people from the village. They thought she and her friends were strange for living in the tower while they were outside, but she befriended some of them. One of them was a brave warrior who didn’t like the tower at all. The girl couldn’t understand why, and they argued a lot, but, together with her other friends, they convinced the girl one day that she should look out the window and see for herself.” 

“What did she see?” asks the little boy, eyes wide.

“That the rest of the world was beautiful and different and not at all what she’d been told,” says Talia.

“That’s not so bad,” says the little girl. While Talia’s been talking, the children have been coming to sit around her.

Talia shakes her head. “No,” she smiles, and she feels a little stronger. “It’s not—it’s quite the opposite. The bad part is that the people in the tower have been lying to her.”

“Did she get out?” asks the little girl.

Talia smiles. “Keep listening and we’ll see.” The little girl leans forward and rests her head in her chin. “She didn’t think she was strong enough to escape, so she tried to wait and do things quietly. She was very scared, but she had become very close to the warrior.” 

“Like in love?” asks the little boy.

Talia laughs. “Yes, in love, but it didn’t last. The tower had plans for the girl, and they put her into a deep sleep. She wasn’t even able to tell the warrior goodbye.” She pauses for dramatic effect, the children leaning in closer to her. “Her will was strong, though, and she had to fight her way out. She had some help, though.”

“From the warrior?”

“No,” says Talia. “One of her friends from the tower saved her, one who had escaped. A beautiful good witch with red hair. The warrior thought she was gone forever.”

For the first time in months, Talia's glad Lyta's not there. This would be too embarrassing otherwise.

“Did she—” begin the boy and the girl together. They look at each other and laugh.

“Wait,” says Talia, covering her eyes dramatically. “Let me guess. You want to know if they found each other again.”

“No fair! No mind-reading!” laughs the girl, earning her a hush from one of the adults. 

“No, that was just a good guess. You would have known if I’d read your mind,” says Talia. “I will never go in without your permission, okay?” The girl nods. “Well, it’s hard. As beautiful and wonderful as the kingdom is, it faces a lot of war. The warrior, the witch, and the girl all have their parts to play. But they’re always making their way back to each other.” 

The boy pouts. “That’s not a happy ending.”

“Is it?” asks Talia. She’s on a roll. She’s not going to stop. “They’re all fighting for what they believe in. They’re fighting for freedom. Sometimes, that’s more important than what one person wants.”

“They’re fighting so that other people can love each other and be happy without fear.” It’s the teenage girl again, her voice low and flat but with no sarcasm. “I bet she wore gloves, Ms. Zima, didn’t she?”

Talia makes sure to meet her eye. “Not anymore."

* * *

It turns out that Talia’s previous knowledge of how Babylon 5 and the Underground Railroad work helps her immensely. She only needs to talk to one resident on the planet to secure how they’re going to get to the next site, for them, which isn’t far.

She’s able to refuel her supplies in town—the language is foreign to her, but most of the labels are the same—so she gives away what she can to the group and buys herself a fresh stock.

“You’re such a blessing,” Clarity says, and she embraces Talia. “Thank you for everything.” She reaches into her pocket. “We took everything with us when we left, but as we’ve got less people than we used to—” She hands Talia the credits. “It's not a lot, but this will last one person about a month.”

“I couldn’t,” says Talia. 

“But you will,” says Clarity firmly. “You’re traveling alone. We have access to supplies and information now, and we have each other. I don’t know your story, but I know you’ve been through hell. We have to help each other out here.”

The little boy latches onto her leg and doesn’t let go. “I want to stay with you,” he cries. “I want you to tell me more stories.” Talia looks down at his tearstained face, and it just about breaks her heart. She picks him up, and he clings to her shoulders. 

For a moment, she lets herself cling back.

“You heard her story,” says Clarity gently, rubbing the boy’s back. “We all have our part to do. Zima has to do her part. You have to come and be safe.”

Talia fights down her tears as the boy lets Clarity pick him up. _I hope, sincerely, that you find what you’re looking for,_ she tells Talia.

Talia stays just one more night on the planet before she leaves, in case anything goes wrong. She hugs her pillow to herself and cries. 

* * *

 

_**[Undisclosed], 2263** _

It’s like that for five more months. Talia loses count of the people she helps move—it’s somewhere in the hundreds—but none of them try to know too much about each other, so it’s better that she forget.

She can’t forget, of course. She helps children, people recently broken away from the Psi Corps. At one point, she meets a woman with shoulder-length blonde hair, who cries at every provocation, who looks utterly out of place and jumps every time she touches something with her bare hands. Had Talia really used to look like that? She catches a glimpse of herself in the mirror one day—black hair she keeps cropped very short (she alternates between black and brown but always keeps the color dark), purple circles under her eyes—and she doesn’t recognize her own body. She’s managed to gain back the weight she’s lost, but she’s stronger now from carrying supplies around all the time.

She moves and runs, moves and runs, never stays in one place for long. She doesn’t specialize in anywhere with a lot of traffic—mostly deserted planets or planets in neutral territory, where telepaths often end up crippled, depleted, exhausted. She develops a few routes through the planets, sets up a few telepath volunteers who volunteer for deep scans for her to clear them (Clarity is one of them), and becomes friendly with the locals on the planets.

She still gets nightmares sometimes, though she’s gotten better at not screaming. She awakes silently, stares off into the distance, waiting for herself to come back to equilibrium. Those are mixed in with her old memories. She thinks about Susan more and more these days. Sometimes, she wakes up and realizes that she’s not in her living room, leaning against Susan’s shoulder, telling her about the children she’s held, all the death people have told her about, the time that she nearly got killed by a telepath refugee driven mad by all of the paranoia, all the running. 

Every night, she goes to sleep feeling productive but empty. She figures purposelessness would be worse. 

It’s strange to get telepath individuals coming through, but one comes in who will only speak to her in thoughts. It’s strange but not uncommon—she gets people in all kinds of trauma. _Lyta Alexander sends me_. 

Lyta’s name is, strangely, wrapped in the image of a willow tree. It’s both lovely and strange. _Prove it._

 _Cold. Celebration. Inebriation. Comfort._ The telepath watches the smile break out on Talia’s face, then adds _what is eggnog?_

She tries not to laugh, because if she laughs, there's a good chance that she's going to cry. You _don’t want to know_ , Talia tells him. 

That’s the first time she hears about how bad the human telepath situation has gotten. She’s been hearing whispers the whole time, but Talia’s used to seeing the situation there as Worse Than She Thinks, accepting that her perceptions probably aren’t accurate, seeing as she’s surrounded by nearly three decades of Psi Corps conditioning and a multitude of terrified, traumatized refugees.

 _What does she want me to do?_

_Come with me._


	8. We've Opened the Door, Now It's All Coming Through

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been having some problems relating to the fact that I live overseas, but all of that's been taken care of, and so updates should go back to regular now! You all have left truly amazing feedback, though, and it's meant a lot to me. Thanks and enjoy!

_**[Undisclosed], 2263** _

They end up meeting on one of Talia’s planets, actually, in one of the nicer rooms that Talia usually sets aside for the most injured travelers, one that looks almost like a full hotel room. It’s also one of the most secure spots, and she’s not surprised that Lyta has chosen it

The telepath passes Talia off to another who also mentions Lyta’s name wrapped in the image of a willow (Talia doesn’t understand but doesn’t ask—in this particular instance, she’s not meant to, she thinks)—perhaps even they’re not allowed full information about this situation—into the meeting room, a quaint-looking type of hotel room (she has been living in caves and barracks for so many months). Talia is greeted again—this time, by a familiar orange reptilian face.

“G’Kar?”

“It is a pleasure, Ms. Winters,” he smiles. It’s been so long since anyone’s called her by her given name.

This is not the G’Kar she remembers. They all would have changed while she was gone, she thinks, and smiles through the ache. “Lyta will be along in a moment. After some recent happenings, I offered to receive some of her visitors first for her—not that she can’t defend herself. We’re just living in volatile times.”

Talia bites back a bitter laugh. “I understand.”

G’Kar gives her a searching look, and Talia feels suddenly like she’s being tested. There’s benevolence behind the gaze with which she is unfamiliar. “Yes, you do. You have changed, Ms. Winters.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, because it’s either a good or a bad thing. She can’t tell which. He does care about Lyta, though, with an indiscriminate warmth that has its edges, but Talia is immensely grateful for it. “Thank you for helping her,” says Talia. “It’s nice to see you again.” She means every word.

Talia has known, of course, considered that Babylon 5 goes on without her. It’s not something that consumes a lot of her thought. The station has never felt like home to her. If she’s honest with herself, no place ever has. However, the people there are staples in her mind, larger than life, as she imagines they have become for several people in the galaxy. She’s heard the stories on the nights when she’s not the only one speaking to an audience of rapt children, on the nights when one of the adults joins in, when Talia’s not letting the children turn toward her so that the adults can let the fear and pain sit starkly on their faces.

She can’t imagine Babylon 5 without them. It’s disorienting, how they’ve—and she includes herself in this story, too, because she’s heard a few ugly things about herself, too, from the travelers—become players in something no one has ever asked them to do, a story writing itself around them.

The door opens, Lyta enters (hardened, purposeful, queenlike), and G’Kar stands. Talia doesn’t ask about the system Lyta has apparently worked out with G’Kar, or why she seems to trust him enough to use such a system. “I wish you the best,” he says, with that warm, serene tone which she is not used to hearing. “I’m glad you live.”

“The same to you,” says Talia, and as he walks out, Talia finds herself feeling a moment of inner silence—not peace, not _tranquility_ , but pleasant all the same.

The door closes, and Lyta nods at Talia crisply. “Business first.” Lyta looks fiercer than ever—hair coiled like flame down her back, in a new sharp black wardrobe that Talia’s never seen before—but her eyes look sad. _You want to help me soundproof the room?  
_

Her hair is the longest it’s ever been, much longer than she would have been allowed to keep it in the Corps—down, curled, and radiant around her shoulders. She takes off her jacket (Talia follows—she’s not sure when because they’ve never consciously set the rule, but they don’t wear sleeves in front of each other) and is wearing a berry-pink underneath. It’s the softest Talia’s ever seen her look.

Talia nods. It feels nice to work with Lyta again. She’s more familiar with her thought processes than nearly anyone else. When they’ve finished, Lyta gestures to two chairs across from each other.

 _Sit_. It’s crisp but warm.

Talia sits down cautiously. _You sent for me_ , she begins, flipping into her professional persona easier than she expects she will, addressing Lyta as she would another client back when the majority of her clients were above the age of sixteen.

“Tell me how much you know about the human telepath situation,” says Lyta. Talia stares, and Lyta shrugs. “I kind of miss your speaking voice.

“It’s escalating,” says Talia, looking at Lyta’s face for confirmation, but Lyta’s shut herself up tight for the moment—probably for Talia’s protection. “We get more and more people every day. We need to scout out new sites, and we can accommodate all the people with space, but I worry about how they’re feeling. The youngest children know something’s going on, but they’re distracted at the moment. The adults are trying to endure. I’m most worried about the adolescents. They’re too old to know exactly what’s going on and too young to stay put.” Lyta opens her mouth. “I know, there’s nothing wrong with that, but the only thing stopping them from leaving is the fact that by the time they’re here, their movements are pretty limited. I’m not afraid of mutiny or anything, but morale is important out here. It’s really the only thing we can give them.” Lyta’s smiling. “What?”

“You really don’t know, do you?”

“I’m kind of in isolation, if you haven’t noticed,” says Talia. Lyta’s face twists a little. “What is it?”

Lyta places her hand over her mouth and shuts her eyes tightly. _Talia_. Even the thought comes out sounding choked.

They know they’re both much too powerful to need any kind of space at this point, but space has always felt like a stupid concept between the two of them. Talia stands and embraces Lyta, who falls apart in her arms. The thoughts come too quickly to process as anything more than a big picture—Byron, willows, the death of thousands of minds, Psi Cops, discord. “Oh, God, Lyta,” whispers Talia.

“I think a part of me knew it was always going to happen—I just—he practically _told_ me it was going to happen,” shrugs Lyta. “He’s the kind of person who belongs to everyone, you know? Except we’re—the telepaths—are divided, so he was as well—it killed him. We killed him. Or he killed himself.” She rubs a hand across her eyes.

Talia thinks that it’s the latter, but she tries not to think it too clearly. “What can I do?” asks Talia. She’s wiping at her own tears. The chair’s barely big enough for the both of them, but they can both sit in it if their legs overlap.

“Like I said, you have no idea how much you’ve done already. You’re famous, you know—everyone’s heard this one tale told by a Russian telepath who runs a house for refugees, ‘The Princess, the Warrior, and the Witch.’ Quite flattering, you know.”

“Princess?” asks Talia. “I never talked about a princess.”

“Princess or angel,” says Lyta. She shrugs. “You’re kind of a princess, you know?” Her eyes sparkle. “Just like I’m kind of a witch?”

“I’m so sorry about that.”

“No, it’s nice, really,” says Lyta. “That’s one of the things you’d do that none of us would. Apparently, it’s one of the stories children are using to keep the mundanes out. They just think it over and over—it’s nice, cute even.”

“Normals,” says Talia without thinking. Lyta looks at her sharply, and Talia wonders just how much they’ve changed in the past few months. “Sorry, it’s instinctive. There’s so much anger, and we’ve been through so much war already.”

“There’s going to be a war,” says Lyta. “A big one. A deciding one. We’ve been like this for so long. It’s not working. They need homes. I'm here to tell you to be prepared. I'm here to tell you that it's going to get a lot worse."

“They need homes,” says Talia, even though she can’t get her head around the concept herself. A world of her own. A world without Psi Corps. She’s always felt more comfortable around normals than other telepaths. She’s always been good with people in general. She’s not connected to this, not the way Lyta is, but she knows it’s right.

“Do you know what she said while you were sleeping?” says Lyta, less for Talia’s sake than for her own, and that’s what Talia tries to keep in mind when she feels a sharp pain shoot through her. “Sometimes peace is another world for surrender.”

There’s no question as to the “she” Lyta’s talking about.

“While I was sleeping,” says Talia, and she sees the apology flash across Lyta’s face, but she doesn’t take what she’s said back. “While I was dead. You can say it.” She looks at the floor and says what she’s wanted to say, what she’s been working herself up to talk about for months now. “She’s gone, isn’t she?”

“For the year,” says Lyta. “She was hurt bad. She should have died, but someone gave their life for her, and the guilt—”

Talia knows about guilt. She pushes thoughts about Control away. “Guilt’s a bitch.”

Lyta laughs. “Yes.” She shifts a little and gives up—she’s pretty much sitting on Talia’s lap now. “Mostly, I just wanted to tell you what was going on. You may have to pick sides soon, but for now, just spread the word. You’re being talked about enough to where you can be considered a significant player in the resistance.” Talia looks at her, alarmed. “No one knows who you really are. Psi Corps pronounced you dead. Zima, on the other hand—you’re a symbol of hope, Talia, of comfort.” She takes Talia’s hands in both of hers. “And, I guess a little selfishly, I wanted to see you because I knew if I did, I would feel better. But Byron—I have been learning that there’s a lot more room in life to be selfish than I thought.”

Lyta’s comfort, however small, is hers as well. Talia squeezes back and phrases her words gently. “I wasn’t meant for war."

“I wasn’t either,” says Lyta. She makes a little gesture, a circle with her hand. “You’re right about your role, though. Just keep doing what you’re doing. Be a hub for information. Keep telling your story.”

“And when the war breaks out?” asks Talia. She forces herself to say it, because even if she’s having trouble believing it, the world’s been through a war and a half while she’s been asleep. She’s seen another war. A third war’s in the making, and Talia thinks of Susan, inches from death, probably still believing with all the fervor that Talia knew she had under her brusque exterior that she was doing the right thing.

Talia wants to do the right thing. She’s ill equipped to do anything useful, though. A part of her has always known this.

“I’ll be fighting,” says Lyta.

“Then I will too,” Talia hears herself say. “I don’t know how, but I will.”

Lyta leans into Talia, who wraps an arm around her. “Are you ever afraid of what you are?”

Talia thinks. She’s reconciled herself with who she is a long time ago, mostly because she doesn’t know what else she’d be, who else she’d be. Being was better than not being at all, and not being at all was better than where she was inside Control, trapped in-between. She shakes her head. “I’m afraid of who I’ve been. I’m afraid of who I was. I’m—” What was it about Lyta that made her want to talk so much? _When I woke up from sleeping, and I was stuck inside Control, conscious but able to do nothing else, hurting, I was angry—disappointed that Psi Corps hadn’t finished the job. I couldn’t do anything, feel anything, but I was aware. Of how helpless I was. I tried to get out of it—fade away, sleep again. In the end, there was no choice left to fight. That doesn’t change the fact that I wanted to die, that I tried to. I’m afraid of that place._

“I’m afraid of what I am,” whispers Lyta. “But I’m more afraid of the alternative. If the Corps gets their way, they own everything of me—my mind, my services, my _body_ , even after I’ve gone beyond the Rim—or whatever the hell happens after we die. There’s nowhere to go but forward.” Talia doesn’t know why, but that makes her shiver. She doesn’t have time to think about why, though, because Lyta continues. “What you were saying before was crap, by the way. There’s more to resisting than fighting. There’s more to strength than physical fighting or blocking a scan. I think if anyone else had gone through what you went through, they wouldn’t be sane enough to make up fairy tales or help the world that did that to them—and I’m including myself in this, okay?"

“I—”

“Talia, come on. Agree with me so that we can sit on a chair designed for more than one person."

Talia’s leg is falling asleep, but she’s chosen to ignore it. “Fine. But you don’t belong to anyone—not the Corps, not to the Vorlons, not to any telepath.”

Lyta heaves an exaggerated sigh, but there are tears in her eyes. “God, Talia, it’s good to be home.” She stands. “Can you walk on that leg?”

Talia laughs. “I’ve had worse.”

“I know you have,” says Lyta, and Talia knows that there are certainly times she’s been happier than this, but it’s the happiest she’s been in months, and in this moment, that makes her want to think that she’s never been happier. “Shake out your leg. We have a lot to talk about, and there’s no need to be private anymore, which is good because G’Kar’s supposed to be guarding the door, but I guarantee you he’s tried every way possible of listening to our conversation even though it’s useless. He’s such a gossip, I swear."

Talia tries to wiggle her toes. “Yes, I was going to ask about him.”

“Like I said,” shrugs Lyta, “it’s a long story.”

* * *

_**Minbar, 2263** _

Six years ago, Alisa would never have imagined that she would wake up every morning eager to run through this type of routine, but she does. She wakes up. She meditates. She eats. She trains. She eats. She trains. She meditates. She has meetings (or classes—she is considered an expert on humans, which still makes her laugh sometimes when she’s alone, the fact that she’s thought of as an _expert_ in anything). She talks (she’s fluent in Minbari now, in word and in mind, but finds that she’s used more to practice English) or explores. She sleeps (if she’s honest, the bare Minbari beds are closer to what she slept on growing up than a proper human bed has ever seemed).

Minbar has taken care to provide her with anything she’d ever need, so money is not the issue it used to be growing up, but she still fights the urge to hoard, to hide. It helps that on Minbar, everything belongs to everyone. It helps that Minbar itself _sparkles like a cut diamond_.

In her spare time, she explores and explores—she is both comforted and made anxious by the fact that she will never see it all, cover every bit of shining crystal with her footsteps, her hands.

This is her home now.

She can’t believe it. There are people who have grown up here, who will probably never leave here, and they don’t know (can’t know, shouldn’t know) what it’s like not to have a home, not to be surrounded by this much unexploited wealth.

She has more free time today than usual because it’s a religious observance, and they’re fasting. Though her stomach wants, it’s wanted more before. She wants to take the day to explore, and she’s a little disappointed when she hears that Delenn wants to see her.

She immediately takes back the thought. Delenn comes to see her all the time, even though she has a baby and so many duties. Alisa shouldn’t feel disappointed because she hasn’t _lost_ anything, and there was a time when she had much less.

She is still weak sometimes.

She packs for Delenn’s because Delenn always stays for a few days with her—Alisa expects to do the same with her. Religious festivals always mean a looser schedule (in name only—time is rerouted toward spiritual activities, and Alisa has always been welcome to sit them out, but she decided a long time ago to participate—she does not share the rock-solid faith of the Minbari, nor is she truly sure anyone listens to her (is there to listen to her in the first place) she prays, but the act itself is comforting, and she figures that’s good enough for her).

Someone wearing the outfit of the religious caste meets her at the door and shows her into the nursery, and Alisa quickly realizes David is sleeping. Delenn lifts a finger to her lips, smiles the smile that has always made Alisa feel so welcome, the kind that stretches all the way to her eyes and _shimmers_. She sweeps her other arm toward the next room. Alisa follows her.

When they reach the living room, they greet in the Minbari custom first, then Delenn embraces her.

Alisa’s a little taller now than she was when she and Delenn first met, taller than Delenn certainly, but Delenn’s hugs have never stopped feeling so strong. Part of her expects that Delenn will drop the hug eventually—Alisa hasn’t set foot on a human planet in years—but Delenn continues to do it and catch her by surprise.

When they settle down across from each other, Delenn sighs in a way that is somehow energetic. “Tell me everything.”

Alisa tries. She tells her about training (going well) and the human culture classes (she has no idea if she’s teaching the right things or not). When Delenn continues to sit there expectantly after that, she tells her about the new parts of Minbar she’s seen.

Delenn’s stillness makes Alisa even more aware of every time she has to move, scratch something. Sitting still is hard. She’s taught herself how to do it during mediation or prayer—staying still during interaction outside of herself, when she’s trying to remain aware of Delenn and both exits to the room and the worry someone’s feeling outside of the room (a lot of worry, and it’s seeping in despite her attempts to keep it out), is different.

“What about you?” she finally asks, when she’s out of words.

Delenn smiles, and Alisa admires her ability to fill a moment with something so small (Alisa scratches her elbow for the fifth time since she’s gotten there and curses her body for betraying her _now_ , of all times). “I am well, “ says Delenn, and that’s her answer—somehow, even though it’s disproportionately smaller than Alisa’s, it feels just as complete. “I apologize for taking you during the fasting.”

Alisa shakes her head. “Not at all.” That seems to perplex Delenn, so Alisa repeats herself in English.

“But I mean it,” says Delenn.

It’s an unusual thing in Minbari, Alisa remembers, to take back the importance of anything anyone is saying.

Alisa laughs. “Translation,” she says, back to speaking in Minbari. She waves her hand. “I’m glad to be here.”

Delenn laughs as well. “You haven’t asked why I’ve asked you here.”

Alisa tries to keep her curiosity at bay. “I thought maybe you just wanted a visit,” she says, trying to keep her voice neutral. “It’s been so long.”

Delenn beams. “I do miss you greatly, and I commend your patience. We must speak of a business matter first.”

“Thank you,” says Alisa, and something inside her swells.

“I think you may have heard a little bit about the human telepath situation.”

Alias shakes her head. “I really don’t hear much about Earth except that which is announced on record.” There is a lot to do on Minbar, and she hasn’t thought of Earth as her home (if that) in years. She’d rather lose herself in the crystal landscape of Minbar, the way that the sun dances on the land in the morning, than concern herself with Earth politics, which she finds, contrary to what she thought would happen when she was young, she understands even less as she grows.

“And off record?” asks Delenn, with the same light curiosity that always masks how she always knows more than she says.

Alisa frowns. “I know it’s bad. It’s an organizational problem, though.” She chose against Psi Corps years ago when she was young. She knows now that the choice was unique to her and that she was lucky. The second she touched Susan Ivanova’s mind was just that—a second—but it was enough. “Any interaction I would have would probably complicate things. With Psi Corps, anyway.” When Delenn doesn’t directly contradict her, she continues with her line of thought. “Unless we’re talking about the rebel forces instead?” Delenn’s face offers no confirmation, but she looks anyway—Delenn has the poker face that Alisa wishes she had, the type of face that she used to strive for back when she lived moment to moment, wished to be everywhere and no one all at once. “I wasn’t aware Minbar was getting involved.”

“We’re not,” says Delenn. “This is purely an information-gathering mission. We have heard rumors that the rebel forces have set up a civilian protection system for the elderly, sick, children."

“I know that they’ve been relocating latent telepaths,” says Alisa, which makes sense to her. It’s unfair to regulate someone with that level of telepathy in particular, especially when she knows what she knows now—even latent telepaths can be trained to see their abilities as part of the individual rather than a separate piece to be used or hidden. “I would make sense that they would have that kind of system in place, though.” She thinks about where she was just a few years ago, how she would have ended up caught in the middle of a situation like this—

She shudders. Delenn sees (she knows she sees—Delenn sees everything) but is too polite to say anything.

“What can I do?” says Alisa instead.

“Plenty,” says Delenn. “We have gathered intelligence suggesting that these neutral moons have been marked as safe territory for telepaths. If you go and find out they are as they say they are, Ranger exercises may be located to that part of space.”

“To protect them if something should fly into their space,” says Alisa slowly. “It wouldn’t be official, though.”

“There is nothing to be official about,” says Delenn. “We are simply scouting new areas, new types of space to have Ranger exercises. We will not get involved with anyone who may or may not be there, though it may help to know if there is a planet of children out there so that appropriate precautions may be taken.”

It’s clear enough, but Alisa’s still puzzled. “Why me?”

“Because you are one of the best Minbari-human liaisons we have. You are a talented telepath. You are more than capable, and you’ll get to see more of the universe, a good idea for one who is so adventurous.” There’s a sparkle in Delenn’s eye at the end, and Alisa is reminded of the sly but parental nature of everyone she ran into at Babylon 5 years ago—a group of people who were formidable as they were compassionate.

The dichotomy used to nearly frighten Alisa—two traits that didn’t belong together, that she had never found together—but now she knows that they’re characteristic of the people she trusts. “It’s not because I’m a child myself?” she asks.

“Not directly, no,” says Delenn, and Alisa wonders suddenly if she’d come across as sounding too accusatory, “though it is certainly an advantage. I wouldn’t think of ‘child’ as a word that means ‘unimportant’.” Alisa blushes, but Delenn is still smiling. “You will travel accompanied by a group of Rangers. They have training exercises to do, and I believe a few of them are new recruits who will need a little bit of translation. I imagine that won’t be a problem with you.”

Alisa laughs. “No. Just tell me what to pack and when to leave.”

“Pack lightly but for all occasions,” says Delenn. “You will leave after the end of the festival, if that’s alright with you. I would welcome the opportunity to visit, and perhaps you can tell me more about your adventures around this planet. I haven’t gotten the chance to explore since I was a young girl.”

Alisa nods as she tries and fails to picture Delenn as someone her age. Had she had the same uncanny sense of the world back then? The same kindness or grace? She finds it hard to believe that Delenn perhaps felt as unsure as she does sometimes. Visiting Delenn always feels refreshing, like a weeklong vacation complete with a spa treatment.

“I think perhaps this trip will also grant you some kind of clarity,” says Delenn. “It’s always good to gain some different perspective.” She stands. “If I remember correctly, you are quite partial to coffee. I believe that John keeps some around here for visitors. I’m not a big fan of it myself, but I think maybe it may have been a while since you’ve had some?” Alisa nods, and Delenn busies herself in the kitchen. “I admit that the smell is quite pleasant, which is why it confuses me that it can smell so sweet and taste so bitter.” Alisa laughs.

There are times, like now, when Alisa gets the feeling that she’s not being told everything, but adults tend to be like that, and she trusts Delenn, so she puts the thought out of her mind for now.

 


	9. Rain on You Things I Can't Say Out Loud

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Alisa?” Talia’s struggling to take in the scene before her—the same slight fame for the girl (no, woman) she had left so many years ago, standing in front of her, looking wide-eyed but grim-mouthed.

_**[Undisclosed], 2264** _

“Zima. Zima.”  
  
Talia jerks awake, reaching into the air beside her, only to find that it’s empty.  
  
She doesn’t take her robe off to go to bed anymore, but she tightens it around herself as she rushes for the door, admiring Clarity’s ability to somehow always be the loudest voice in a room without ever having to raise her voice above speaking level—vocally or telepathically. It's been a few weeks since she'd come back, most of her party in tow (but some weren't there, and Talia didn't ask, just offered a quiet wave of empathy). This time, they were back to stay and help.  
  
Clarity’s standing outside, having not bothered to throw a robe on. Her hair is in a messy ponytail, her arms wrapped around herself. “There are ships outside.”  
  
Talia wasn’t awake before, but she is now. “Get everyone into hiding,” she says, trying to keep the quiver out of her voice. “They should be rehearsed, but make sure they know it’s not a drill. How long have they been out there?”  
  
“Fifteen minutes. Three Minbari ships. We were changing night scan shifts. I had just laid down to sleep.”  
  
“And you just woke me now?” snaps Talia.  
  
“They’re not directed here,” says Clarity. “We thought they were at first, but they appear to be engaged with each other and not concerned with this planet in any way.”  
  
“Yet you came to me anyway.”  
  
“They’re landing. The thing is that we’re pretty sure there’s a human on board with the Minbari crew.”  
  
A different flash of panic shoots through Talia.

* * *

“Alisa?” Talia’s struggling to take in the scene before her—the same slight fame for the girl (no, woman) she had left so many years ago, standing in front of her, looking wide-eyed but grim-mouthed.  
  
“Ms.—” beings Alisa, and Talia’s dazed, but there’s just eough adrenaline coursing thorugh her to cut off Alisa before she finishes. Talia narrows her focus to Alisa’s mind only, raises enough of a barrier to where no one else can listen in.  
  
_Zima. No last name. Long story._  
  
Alisa’s brow furrows at that, but she speaks anyway. “Zima.” She turns to the Rangers beside her and says something in Minbari. They bow to each other, and the others leave. “Rangers. Kind of an elite Minbari force. They’ll be outside. I’m not one of them. I’m here on a mission.”  
  
“What’s wrong?” asks Talia, and she wonders when that sentence became her first response to everything. Probably around the time she found out a spider-shaped elite race had decided to obliterate them just because.  
  
“We received word that human telepaths had taken up these worlds as a refuge. I was sent to find out if it was right.”  
  
“This is not a Minbari problem,” Talia says firmly.  
  
“No, but the Rangers are part of the new Interstellar Alliance. The space outside falls under their jurisdiction and can be used, which is good, because there was a Psi Corps transport out there.”  
  
“Do you have proof?”  
  
She feels bad for acting like this, but Alisa’s feelings don’t seem hurt. “You can look for yourself,” says Alisa, as if she’s expected this response. She reaches into her pocket and pulls out a data crystal. “Our ship’s logs. We downloaded them before we got off the ship. Of course, if you want to look into those yourself—”  
  
“That’s fine. We can deal with that later. Where is the ship now?”  
  
“Back in hyperspace, last we saw. We simulated battle maneuvers, a practice space. They left. They’re not really supposed to be out here,” says Alisa. “I don’t think they wanted conflict with the Rangers, not that I think they were thinking this part of space is particularly interesting.”  
  
“How many of you were out there?”  
  
“Three of us. We wanted the battle simulation to look convincing, so we brought actual recruits with us who needed to practice.”  
  
“Who sent you?”  
  
“Delenn is Entil’zara,” she says. _Leader_ , she translates.  
  
Another familiar name. “What are you going to do now that you’re here?”  
  
“Refuel. Besides the five of us down here, we have everyone else waiting in case we’re wrong and Psi Corps decides to send reinforcements,” says Alisa. “My report will show that there are civilians of a human origin out here, nothing beyond what my report said. Delenn will see it and make this area a more frequent part of Ranger exercises. No one will know beyond us. There is no official help being offered here and therefore no added risk.”  
  
“But you’ll know the truth.”  
  
“Minbari do not lie,” says Alisa, “so it’s a good thing I wasn’t born Minbari.”  
  
There’s nervousness in her smile, but it’s the unsure smile of years ago. There’s a steadiness to it, as well as shrewdness, and Talia feels inexplicable pride and sadness at once. She fights that off her face, though, and smiles back. “Please understand that the people here are under my protection.”  
  
Duty recognizes duty. “I—we—don’t want to jeopardize that.”  
  
“I guess I should be more surprised about being found than I am, but it was only a matter of time. I’m not thrilled, but I’m glad it was you of all people,” says Talia. “We will have to tighten security, but that can wait until morning. Things are starting to move fast around here. I won’t be surprised if we start all-out fighting soon. That said—” Talia exhales and feels just a little bit of weight roll of her shoulders. “—I’ve missed you so much.” Alisa rushes forward to hug her, and Talia catches her, surprised. “I didn’t hear anything after you left. I wondered if you were alright.”  
  
“I had no idea it was you,” says Alisa. Talia starts to let go, but Alisa hugs her tighter, so Talia hugs her again, cups the back of Alisa’s head, which has hair even shorter than when she last saw her, cropped close to her head. Alisa touches Talia’s hair in response. “You look so different. I heard the worst.”  
  
“It’s a long story—”  
  
“Oh, I’ve heard the story!” exclaims Alisa. “I had to translate it for the Minbari after they realized that it was gaining so much traction among humans. It’s become part of human pop culture.”  
  
“Different story,” laughs Talia, “and you’re exaggerating.”  
  
“But the story you’re telling, the fairy tale, that one’s based in reality, right?”  
  
There’s mischief on her face, Talia realizes. “Come on, ma’am,” she says wryly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders. “We’ll talk after you let me fuss over you.”

* * *

 Talia doesn’t have the first idea how to “fuss,” but she does her best. She gives her and her Ranger counterparts their own rooms and makes sure they’re fed and bathed (in Alisa’s case, at least—the Minbari politely decline, as Talia expects they will). Alisa protests when Talia gives her decaf, but it’s late, everyone on the station is exhausted from the middle-of-the-night scare, and, as Talia kindly informs Alisa, neither of them needs any more caffeine.  
  
Alisa catches a glimpse of the refugees in passing, but Talia takes her to a separate room.  
  
“You may be alright with lying, but I want as little crossover as possible,” explains Talia.  
  
“A lot of them are children, aren’t they,” says Alisa. It’s not a question. Talia nods, and Alisa looks solemn. “We’re doing as well as we can. How is Minbar?”  
  
“Peaceful,” says Alisa, in a tone that almost sounds uneasy. “Beautiful. I’m nearing the end of my training. The discernment is soon.”  
  
“Yeah?” asks Talia, smiling. “That’s good, right?”  
  
“Yes,” says Alisa. “It’s a kind of rough translation of one of the Minbari ceremonies. You come together with elders—for me that’ll most probably be Delenn—to figure out, you know, the rest of your life.” The last part comes out a little exasperated, a little as a laugh. “You get about a year to explore yourself. There are a lot of rituals, which are nice.”  
  
“You’ll figure it out,” says Talia. It comes out too insufficient-sounding, too pained. The world has gone on without her, as it should, but the world has gone on for Alisa too.  
  
“Do you like what you’re doing here?”  
  
“Yes,” says Talia, and she means it. It’s lonely, and she often feels disconnected from what’s happening around her, but she wouldn’t be anywhere else. “It’s fulfilling, you know? There’s so much destruction going on. It’s nice to be involved in preserving something, and I can do that here better than anywhere else.”  
  
Alisa smiles, then she looks into her drink and puts it down. “You shouldn’t have been able to talk to me in there, with your new name. Commander Ivanova said—”  
  
“Susan?” asks Talia, much too quickly. “Do you talk often?”  
  
Alisa shakes her head. “She contacted me after you—well, she said that you were probably dead, and I thought it was a trick—but your hair and then when you spoke to me—that was you. I know it was. Things got busy on Babylon 5, then. The next time I heard from her, she was leaving the station for a while. Does she know about you?”  
  
“No,” whispers Talia. “As far as she’s concerned, I’m dead. You know and one other person knows. That’s it. That’s how it will stay.”  
  
She doesn’t ask who the other person is. “You miss her,” says Alisa. It’s not a question.  
  
Chances for honesty are so scarce these days. Talia takes them where she can. “Constantly.”  
  
“And your extra strength?”  
  
She’s rehearsed for these kinds of questions before, in the middle of the night when she can’t sleep, but she never thought she’d have to answer them for real. “Susan told you the truth. I did die. I’m back now. I’m changed, but I’m me.”  
  
“Talia,” says Alisa softly.  
  
She hasn’t heard her own name in so long. “Yes.”  
  
There are more questions to be asked. Talia knows she wouldn’t be convinced if she was in Alisa’s situation, but perhaps it’s because Alisa has been living among the Minbari—or because she just has faith—but Alisa merely crosses her hands over her chest and bows, a Minbari gesture. Talia follows, and even though they don’t touch, a feeling of peace comes over Talia.  
  
If she survives this, she’ll remind herself to figure out more about telepaths on Minbar.  
  
“I’ll need to contact Delenn,” says Alisa. “I won’t tell her anything about you, just that I got here and that our mission is complete. It’s the last thing that I need to do, and then I’ll be free to—help—”  
  
“—visit,” says Talia, meeting Alisa’s shrewd look with one of her own. “I want you as little involved in this as possible.”  
  
“I’ll just need to get back on the ship,” says Alisa. She looks down at her unfinished drink. “Um—are you busy later?”  
  
“Not too busy to talk to you,” says Talia, smiling. “I’m sure we have much more to talk about.”

* * *

 “I have found what we discussed,” Alisa tells Delenn on their secure line, “and more.”  
  
“How will you proceed?”  
  
“As before,” says Alisa. The Minbari forces will leave in three days, but now that Alisa’s told Delenn this, Minbar will be sending out practice troops to Talia’s area as early as tomorrow. “We were forced to come down to the surface. A Psi Corps ship was here. We acted as practiced.” She tries to end on as much a note of finality, one that she knows won’t translate because Minbari is like that—it leaves spaces at the ends of sentences—but she does it anyway, knowing that Delenn will read it as a pause of sorts.  
  
Sure enough, Delenn prompts Alisa. “And?”  
  
“There were no problems.” Delenn remains silent, and Alisa takes a deep breath. “I am fully willing to return to Minbar as promised, but I was wondering if it was possible if I began discernment early.” Delenn’s still silent. “I would like to spend it here. There are—” She pauses. Mentioning the staggering number of children here is probably not the best thing to do, even over a secure channel. “The young ones could use some guidance, and I feel that this is where I should be.”  
  
That last part is the most important.  
  
“You’ll need permission from your instructor,” says Delenn, but her smile is warm. “I’m sure you can obtain that, though. I have no problems with this arrangement, though under the circumstances, I think that I should ask whether you would like me to communicate to your instructor for you.” Alisa nods. “We’ll check in tomorrow, then,” says Delenn.  
  
The transmission ends, and Alisa realizes that her legs are shaking. When she walks back to the transport, though, she feels unusually light.

* * *

 Talia’s concerned, to say the least.  
  
“You’re an adult, so I’m not going to stop you, but I have to ask why, assuming Minbar approves.”  
  
“It’s less Minbar that has to approve and more—Delenn,” says Alisa. “My affiliation with Minbar is—less official than that of a Minbari, which I’ve never minded, but I just feel a pull here, and that’s something they respect and acknowledge.”  
  
“Because of the people here,” says Talia. “The children?”  
  
“Delenn would say that personal involvement is a strength, not a weakness,” says Alisa.  
  
Talia disagrees but does not speak. Personal involvement has always been her own weakness, her own shame. It is also the only thing that keeps her rooted these days. It may be the only thing she has left.  
  
“This is the right decision,” says Alisa reassuringly. “I’ve learned a lot about what’s going on here. The last time we saw each other, you spoke as if you knew you were going to see me again. You spoke as if I was going to come back and teach. I don’t really know about the teaching part, but I think—and this would need more discernment—there is a reason that I was raised between worlds—um, not that I’m really sure what that is, but I’m pretty sure that Minbar is my home, but I’m not meant to stay there. I think for the moment, I’m meant—I want—to help here.” She looks like she wants to say more but doesn’t.  
  
“I mean, of course, it’s an advantage,” says Talia. “Personally—Alisa, it’s dangerous, and I’m not going to lie. I’m worried about you.”  
  
“About me,” says Alisa. She lets out a small breath of laughter and shrugs. “I guess that’s how I feel about you, so it goes both ways, then.”  
  
Talia presses her own hands together, gripping so hard it hurts. “I don’t know if I can ever apologize enough about what you must have thought all this time.”  
  
“I don’t think anyone would have chosen this situation for herself,” says Alisa, “but I’m not sure if I would have been able to do better in your position.”  
  
Talia sighs and wraps an arm around Alisa. “If Delenn gives you full permission from Minbar, let me know. In the meantime, you’re going to have to choose a name. I can’t call you Alisa here.”

* * *

 “Permission is granted,” says Delenn. “I know it will be difficult to communicate, but try to call in every once in a while. Patrols will be flying by, but as far as everyone is concerned, you have become part of a classified mission for the Rangers until farther notice. Your instructors, by the way, offer their full confidence. I doubt this surprises you.”  
  
“I’m no less grateful,” says Alisa. She can’t help but keep the smile off her face. “Thank you, Delenn.”  
  
“Is there any other help I can offer you?  
  
“Um,” says Alisa. She clears her throat. She doesn’t know why she’s so afraid of asking this. She was always going to ask this, but she never thought it would be in this situation, and she didn’t think her palms would be sweating as she crosses her arms over her chest. “I’ll be needing an alternate name while I’m here,” she says quietly. “I was wondering if you could help me decide on one, so you can address me during our transmissions?”  
  
Delenn has to know what she’s asking. Humans are never asked to take Minbari names. Alisa’s sure it’s happened before (in the way that she’s sure nearly everything has happened before, because the universe is big, and she is small, and she can’t know everything), but it’s an unusual request, to say the least.  
  
Besides a deeper-than-usual inhale, though, Delenn doesn’t show any reaction to Alisa’s statement. “A Minbari name, then?” she asks lightly, but there’s a twinkle in her eye. “It only makes sense. We are speaking Minbari. It would attract less attention if someone was using a Minbari name, especially one so fluent as yourself.”  
  
Alisa wants to tell Delenn that she needs a thread, something to link her back to the people that have become her home, so that no matter how far she goes (and she thinks that maybe she won’t be seeing Minbar again for a long time), she can carry that small piece, however intangible, with her. It’s not wise to say that over a transmission, though.  
  
If she’s truly honest with herself, she’s not the kind of person to say this in person—ever.  
  
“Yes,” whispers Alisa, and she tries not to think about how she’s tearing up. Who knows when she’ll see Delenn again?  
  
She’s thankful, suddenly, for the three days she spent with Delenn.  
  
She wonders if Delenn knew this was going to happen.  
  
If Delenn did, Alisa decides that she’s thankful for that too.  
  
Delenn tilts her head a fraction (only a fraction, only for a moment). “Wyndan,” she says, “will be quite a cumbersome name for so many around you. Perhaps you can shorten it.”  
  
_Wyndan_. Truth seeker.  
  
Her throat is dry. “But Wyndan will be my name. It is how I will think of myself.” Delenn bows her head in response. “Thank you, Delenn.” For this gift.  
  
(She has been given so much. How is she so deserving?)  
  
“I know you would carry any name with honor,” says Delenn. “I am honored that you have asked this of me. Is there anything else you’d like to know?”  
  
There’s plenty else. How much of this did Delenn suspect was here? Did she know that Talia was alive? Alisa doesn’t doubt that Talia’s telling her the truth, that there’s only one other person who knows, most probably a telepath, but Delenn tends to know things without people telling her. Did anyone else know? None of these are questions for now, though. “No,” whispers Alisa.  
  
“We will speak soon.” They’re not in the same place, but Delenn puts one hand on her own chest and extends her arm anyway, like Alisa’s right in front of her. Alisa does the same.  
  
“Farewell,” says Alisa. There is no goodbye to her, for her and Delenn. The water in her eyes betrays her.  
  
“Farewell,” says Delenn in English. The transmission ends so quietly that Alisa wouldn’t have heard it if she wasn’t looking at the monitor.  
  
Talia’s exhausted when Alisa finds her, curled up and waiting with a pillow on the small couch in the space that has come to serve as her quarters.  
  
“Go to sleep,” says Alisa (her face still tingles from the crying). “I’ll be here tomorrow. I’ll be here a long time.”  
  
Talia smiles. “Congratulations, then.” She moves over so Alisa can sit beside her “I know it’s silly, but I’m so proud of you right now. I don’t feel like I have the right to be, but I am, because I still remember you the way I saw you for the first time.”  
  
“Stealing?” asks Alisa, grinning in spite of herself.  
  
“Finding her way out of the dark,” says Talia. She shoots Alisa an arch look. “Though I see you haven’t lost that shrewd mind of yours. How was Delenn?”  
  
“Alright.”  
  
“And you?”  
  
Alisa looks down at her hands. “You ever leave somewhere that feels like home, and you know it’s the right thing to do for—” She waves her hands around. “—all of this, but it hurts anyway?”  
  
Maybe she’s imagining it, because Talia face looks like it should be crying too and is only holding back because of—fatigue? Too many tears already? “Yes,” she says, and there’s so much gravity in that statement that Alisa finds herself wondering for the umpteenth time what exactly happened to Talia when she was, as she puts it, “dead.”  
  
She shivers, and Talia passes her a blanket. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe we should be getting to bed. I don’t mean to keep you awake.”  
  
Alisa pulls the blanket around her shoulders and leans the tiniest bit toward Talia. “You can call me Wynn while I’m here. Zima and Wynn.”  
  
Light doesn’t reach this place they’re in, but Alisa checks, and it’s dawn-time when Talia walks her back to her new quarters.


	10. Daughter of the Rain and Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ivanova and Garibaldi enter the mix, as the Telepath War comes ever closer to a breaking point.

**_EAS_ ** **Titans,** **_2264_ **

Susan Ivanova likes her new ship. It lets her travel far away from Babylon 5, the turmoil happening in the aftermath of the war, and lets her figure out how she feels herself, because that’s not something she’s sure about these days.

She’s perfectly willing to iron that out (or not) as she commands her new crew. Commanding is something she’s very good at, and even though Sheridan had been working on her diplomacy skills, there’s not a lot of use for those out here (or maybe she just has her own style of diplomacy). She runs a tight ship (she always knew she would), and the routine is comfortingly boring. She wakes up, they explore, they take readings, and they keep up with news of Earth via news reports that she can turn on or turn off. She skips a day watching them one time, and the world doesn’t end.

She feels slow and numb, so she relies on instinct--structure, orders. She hopes that everything else sorts itself out--the guilt she feels, the anger she has for herself.

She tries not to think about it too much, but she can’t control what happens while she sleeps. In the middle of the night, she dreams of Talia.

* * *

**_Babylon 5, 2259_ **

“There’s only one person on this station I trust implicitly. You.”

She wants to kiss Susan.

She wants to kiss her so badly.

She touches the sleeve of Susan’s robe instead. This decision is not hers to make. Talia made her decision when she agreed to stay over (or maybe she made it a long time ago—she’s not sure when it turned from a fanciful thought into a firm truth). Susan hasn’t made up her mind yet. She doesn’t have to be a telepath to know any of this. If nothing else, Susan is stubborn, and Talia doesn’t mind that, wonders what it would be like, really, to be set in her own principles that firmly, but as she’s realizing more and more lately, she has less and less control over what happens to her.

The silk on Susan’s robe slides underneath her fingers—smooth,  _ warm _ from her shoulder—and knowing all of this, Talia places herself in Susan’s hands.

Then, she walks away, and she’s glad her back’s turned, because a wave of feeling crashes into her mental walls then, and it’s all Talia can do not to gasp.

_ Susan _ , she thinks and doesn’t say (doesn’t say, doesn’t turn around, because Talia’s crying out for her too, a silent reply that ripples through her, and she shivers through the lingering warmth from her shower.

“Talia,” says Susan, quiet, low, but with urgency that shakes Talia’s mind.

Talia turns around, meets Susan’s eyes, takes a breath, and holds it, because she’s suddenly excruciatingly vulnerable, and yet—

She  _ yearns _ .

Susan’s walking toward her, and Talia doesn’t dare move—she’s trying too hard to keep her mind still, keep Susan’s thoughts out (shouting, she’s shouting them like she shouts in so many other areas in her life, but never at Talia, never out loud).

Susan reaches out, as if to touch Talia’s face, but settles for her hand.

They’ve touched like this, once before, on a night with wine, on a night that Talia invited herself in and Susan didn’t turn her away, on a night when Talia began to shed what little fragile armor (she’s grown up surrounded by lies) she wore, and in the middle of refilling her glass and telling herself she is brave, she is strong, she can do this—all the things people like her were never meant to do, were never meant to be—all the things that people like her were supposed to be protected from—Susan reached out and took her hand, bare, ungloved, and just held it until it became too uncomfortable for them to stretch across Susan’s coffee table.

It’s such a simple motion.

It makes Talia want to cry.

Then again, Susan’s always excelled at small gestures. Maybe that’s one of the reasons Talia’s drawn to her. Talia’s afraid of the big things, the important things. She used to think it was because she was made fragile—didn’t have the constitution for such things. She knows now that maybe she has always known that it wasn’t her who was fragile—it was simply everything she was standing on. Her personal strength is still up for debate, but Susan Ivanova, a woman who is everything but fragile, who yells and screams and smirks to get her way, who can drink anyone around her under the table and be up in time for duty the next day, is touching her in a way that is both chaste and breathtakingly intimate, and Talia doesn’t know what that says about either of them and strength, but not for the first time (not for the first time this month, this  _ week _ even), she feels that she’s on a precipice of change.

For the first time, she’s not terrified about it.

Susan’s got Talia’s hand in both of hers now, gripping but nowhere near painful (she finds herself almost wishing it was), and Talia still doesn’t dare move, even as Susan’s pulling her hand up and up, brushes her lips across Talia’s fingers in a gesture that’s halfway between comfort-starved and a kiss.

Susan lowers Talia’s hand to her own neck, holds it there with one hand, then reaches out and touches the ends of Talia’s hair, her jaw. She’s staring at her lips the same way Talia was before, the same way Talia has been for week.

They’ve crossed a line. They’re too close to pretend this is anything else anymore.

She closes her eyes in time to feel Susan’s mouth on hers, and she’s exhaling against Susan’s lips, and it’s magnetic, the way they fall into each other then, wrapping their arms around each other, tongues sliding together. It’s hot and wet, and Susan’s so warm (warmer than she thought she’d be) that Talia whimpers, but if she’s making any noise, Susan’s muffling it with her mouth.

Susan pulls away, and Talia tries to breathe as quietly as possible (she’s not afraid, but she doesn’t know what kind of change this is, what this is, because Susan hasn’t defined it yet).

Her hand is still on Susan’s neck, but no one’s pulling away.

“If we—um,” Susan takes a deep breath. “If we do this, is it alright if you don’t—inside my head, I mean—it’s not that I don’t want—you—” She takes another breath, and Talia tries to ignore the fact that her heart has just jumped into her throat. “—I want you. I’m just--please don’t.”

She’s trying. She’s really trying, and Talia reaches into Susan’s hair, runs her thumb along her cheek. It’s supposed to be a gesture of comfort, an acknowledgment of understanding, but Susan closes her eyes, leans into it, kissing Talia’s palm.

They both have room to grow.

She makes sure Susan’s staring straight at her when she answers. “Never without your permission,” says Talia. “Okay?”

“It’s just that I have—”

Talia pulls Susan to her. “You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

She kisses her, then pulls back and makes sure she sees the beginnings of a nod before Susan kisses her, warm and deep, but Talia can’t help thinking of a rush, a breath of fresh air as she kisses her back. “Some of your emotions might make it through, though. I’m not so sure I’ll be able to block that, but I can try.”

For a moment, all of the fear drains from Susan’s face, from the steady buzz of emotion that’s hitting Talia’s mental walls and dissipating (she doesn’t trust, but she wants to trust, and that’s good enough for Talia, who’s used to no one trusting, no one wanting anything other than what she can give them). She’s the complex and beautiful person Talia met on her first day here, the person who made her want to persevere in this relationship back when it wasn’t even that. “I don’t mind that.”

Talia’s used to surprising people in bed—the line between her professional and personal life is, on the best day, smudged beyond recognition. A long time ago, she’s designated a room alone to herself—her room, at the end of the day—as a place for herself. She’s on the rest of the time, professional like the Corps has taught her to be. It’s just easier that way. Even when she’s off-the-clock, eating with her colleagues or Susan, she maintains space—gloves on, carefully directed words.

This is different, though. Susan’s invited her into her space, asked for this break in barriers between them (they’re coming down, one by one, and it’s exhilarating, and Talia can barely believe it, but she wants this break, wants it so badly because it’s been so long since she’s been able to let go even this much in front of another person).

When Susan kisses her again, it’s ginger, tentative— _ she’s trying to convince herself _ , Talia realizes, and mimics her kiss, sweet, soft—and she’s picking up Susan’s desire, and it’s combining with her own (and that’s alright, because if that’s the only thing getting through, that’s fine, she can deal with that). The kiss deepens, and Susan’s pushing her backward now, pulling at her nightgown, and they’re headed for Susan’s bed, but Talia pulls her down onto the couch.

Susan’s visibly surprised, and Talia takes the opportunity to shrug out of one shoulder of her robe (it was nearly falling off anyway), bring Susan’s hands to the tie at her waist. “Now, here,” she tells her, and Susan slides the robe from her shoulders. “What do you think?” She’s pulling at the bottom of Susan’s nightgown, the very edges that have pooled at her knees, rubbing her thumbs in circles at Susan’s knees—she won’t go farther unless Susan says she wants to, but Susan’s thoughts are screaming through, breaking through.

She doesn’t know what’s gotten into her. They’re still standing in the living room.

She can’t find it in herself to care right now.

“Now,” replies Susan. And—there, there it is—the want on her face, open and dark. Talia shivers. Susan takes the bottom of Talia’s nightgown and pulls it up and over. Talia follows suit, and then they’re just kissing again, running their hands over each other, and the sounds that Susan’s making are nearly drowned out by the need her thoughts are screaming, and Talia keeps breaking away from Susan’s mouth to kiss her breasts, her neck, because it’s overwhelming in a way that she’s nearly forgotten.

Talia slides her hands lower, down to Susan’s hips, her thighs, and she should feel guilty about the pleasure burning around her head, but she can’t bring herself too, especially when Susan brings Talia’s hands to the waistband of her underwear and pulls down.

From there, it’s quick—they’re inside each other, warm, wet, underwear down around the tops of their thighs, rocking and hissing and moaning, bracing themselves against each other and, occasionally, the back of the couch, purging two years of secrets and tension and God-knows-what-else that they don’t even know about it yet—the world could be in the beginning stages of ending right now, may have been for some time, and they both know this. They move as if it’s not a secret, not something no one talks about.

Susan’s teeth graze Talia’s lower lip, and Talia revels in what it’s like to actually be able to  _ do something _ , not wait, not watch, for once. “Harder,” she says, and she wraps her arm around Susan’s shoulders as she loses her balance as Susan pushes her back against the couch.

“You,” says Susan, but she doesn’t finish the sentence, because there’s just enough feeling slipping through, just enough bleeding over into Talia’s mind, to hint that if she twists her fingers  _ just like this _ —and Susan’s coming, head thrown back, long hair flying, yelling, contracting around Talia’s fingers. The emotion’s enough to make Talia almost come herself (she’s been close to begin with), but Susan moves her hand away, sucks on her fingers. “You’re crazy,” she says, still dazed but standing, pushing her underwear down to the floor.

“Nearly,” says Talia. She kisses Susan, grinding herself against her thigh, then kneels.

Susan pulls her up. “Don’t you dare,” she says. “We’re going to bed, and then—” She makes a show of sucking on another finger. “—I want to taste you first.” She kisses Talia then, roughly, but Talia’s already pushing her back toward her bedroom.

* * *

**_EAS_ ** **Titans,** **_2264_ **

Susan awakes, not startled, just a firm reminder of what reality is (and what isn’t). Consciousness is cruel but familiar, not a wishful fantasy in a dream about someone else. She doesn’t know why she’s Talia in the dream. If she believed in mystical bullshit, she’d believe that it was because she’s self-centered enough to think about pleasuring herself.

No, instead she's thinking about what Talia was feeling during that night and if it was real.

She pushes it out of her mind and readies for her shift.

* * *

“Captain on deck--quick, everyone, look busy,” announces Ivanova’s XO Commander Nguyen.

Susan raises an eyebrow. “Glad to see you’re so enthusiastic, Nguyen, It’s the kind of enthusiasm I’d like to see on this ship, and it just so happens that we need someone to pick up an extra paperwork shift this month. Thank you for volunteering yourself.” She lets a couple beats fall before meeting his eye; there’s humor on both their faces. Seeing that, the rest of the ship appears to calm down.

“Anything for my captain,” replies Nguyen, and the room, visibly relaxes. They can never tell when the two of them are joking, and Susan prefers it that way. She likes Nguyen. He’s decent at any task but best at talking to the crew, which Susan prefers. It means that she doesn’t have to do the talking herself.

It just means that he tends to talk too much sometimes. “Heard a rumor today, captain,” he says.

“Is it important?” she replies, taking her seat. She’ll spend some time with the ship getting briefed on everything, then visit the labs to make sure what little reporting they have to do is done properly, then work a little on the report she has due to Sheridan in a couple of weeks. She thinks they’re having a ship-wide movie night for anyone that’s not on shift. She’ll make an appearance then conveniently leave in the middle to take a call in her quarters--a good day.

“No, just entertaining.”

“I’d tell you to keep it to yourself, but we all know you’re incapable of such a feat,” she says, which earns her laughter from the crew around her. “Just try to keep it brief. Some of us have work to do.”

“There’s some kind of tale starting to circulate with the telepaths, like a telepath fairy tale or something. They’re creative. Who knew?”

Susan bristles silently, then realizes she hasn’t told any of them about her past on purpose--how would they know about her hate of the subject? “How interesting,” she says instead, as dry as she can make it sound.

“So anyway,” says Nguyen, “there’s this one telepath princess, and she lives in this castle all locked up and stuff, and she never thinks anything of it--”

“You’re going to tell me the whole story? Does anyone object to this?” There’s silence, then someone clears her throat from the corner.

Susan turns around and sees her, purses her lips when she realizes she doesn’t remember her name.

“Lieutenant Sharma,” the short woman says without prompting. “I joined two weeks ago but was sick for the past week--this is my first full shift.”

“Welcome,” says Susan. “I take it you’re going to save us all from this very long story?”

Sharma clears her throat again. “Uh, no, Captain. I rather like the story. I just heard a different version, that’s all.” She pauses.

Susan rolls her eyes. “Please, share with the class.”

“It’s an angel.”

“What is?”

“The princess.”

“That hardly changes anything,” Nguyen protests.

“Sure it does--it changes  _ everything _ . There are  _ flying motifs _ and also, it remarks on the theme of freedom. Also, it leaves the gender up for grabs--”

“Angels are women.”

Susan opens her mouth, but Nguyen is faster. “We don’t tolerate sexism on this ship, Lieutenant Lee.”

“Sorry, won’t happen again.”

“Alright,” says Susan loudly, and they all fall silent. She looks around the room. “How many people have heard the first version?” A little over half the room raise their hands. “And the other version?” Everyone else raises their hands. “Is it that big of a deal?”

“You have to hear the whole story,” says Nguyen. “Then you’ll understand better.”

Susan sighs. “Make it quick.”

“Okay, so there’s this princess-- _ or angel _ \--and she lives in this tower all locked up not thinking anything of it, but she’s kept from the real world, until this knight--”

“Warrior.”

“Seriously, Lee?”

“Oh, so female angels are sexist and bringing up that the warrior is not explicitly stated to be a male isn’t?”

“Female knights existed,” argues Sharma. She looks to Susan for affirmation, and Susan just shrugs. She is, blessedly, not invested in this enough to care.  


“...a knight or a warrior comes from the nearby village to come live with her.”

“I heard that she’s her next-door neighbor!” pipes up Sharma.

“Basically, the princess angel’s introduced to the real world that she’s kept from and basically how sheltered her life is because they keep all the windows covered, right? And the knight warrior’s mad at it.”

“The knight warrior’s the one who knows what’s really going on,” Lee explains. Susan raises an eyebrow.

“Anyway, the princess angel’s convinced to look out the window and sees that the world outside isn’t nearly as freaky as she thought it was--it’s actually pretty awesome, just maybe more so for people like the warrior knight and not her. So she decides to escape, but it’s dangerous because the bad guys are keeping her there.”

“And then she passes out for a really long time,” says Lee helpfully.

“But this witch--”

“Sorceress, Sharma. Geez.”

“ _ This magical being _ who was trapped in the tower herself but was able to get away somehow helps her get out and wake up and all that good stuff. But they have to try to save all the other princess angels too, so they split up and start this like, fairy tale revolution.”

“Anyway, it’s all supposed to be about something that really happened with the telepaths,” says Sharma.

“Ah,” says Susan dismissively.

“In the revolution, probably at Psi Corps,” says Nguyen.

Susan laughs a little. “Well, they could certainly do with a little shake.”

“You guys haven’t heard the version where it actually takes place on Babylon 5?” asks Lee.

“What, like every single other war time story that we’ve heard ever?” asks Nguyen. “People are just reaching, at this point.” He looks at Susan.

“My time on Babylon 5 is irrelevant,” she tells them, knowing that’s enough fuel for a discussion that will continue long after she leaves the room. “Thank you for that riveting story, but I have to take a call.”

“How’d you know?” asks Lee.

“Sorry?”

“There’s a call for you.”

“I’ll take it in my quarters.”

“That’s what the person on the other end said as well. How did you know that if I didn't tell you?” Susan shrugs and walks out. When the doors have safely shut behind her, Sharma looks over at Nguyen, eyes wide.

“You were right.”

“Of course I was.”

“Ivanova  _ is _ God.”

* * *

**_[Undisclosed], 2264_ **

“It’s going to happen soon,” says Alisa. “Perhaps sooner than we think.” She, Clarity, and Talia sit around a table with ship reading charts open in front of them.

Talia swallows. “Bester plays the long game, that’s true. That’s his speciality. Lyta doesn’t operate that way, though. She’ll want control over the situation as soon as possible so that she can have the upper hand. If there hasn’t been a big move made yet, there will be soon.”

“So we prepare for casualties,” suggests Clarity. She braids back the ends of her headscarf. “Double the patrols to pick up innocents, increase the encrypted messages in a way that doesn’t incite panic or pick up suspicion--we have extra beds, nicer facilities, or something. Stock up on healing supplies and food.”

“The Minbari can supply clothing in a roundabout way,” adds Alisa. She furrows her brow at Talia. “What’s bothering you?”

“A more active plan,” says Talia. “There’s not a doubt in my mind that Lyta can take down Bester, but with an army and the Corps’ resources--” She turns to Alisa. “We need a backup plan, one that you can help with.”

Clarity stands. “This helps if I don’t know about it at all, right?” Calmly, she leaves the room.

“Ready?” Talia asks Alisa, and Alisa nods. “Here’s who I need you to contact.”

* * *

**_EAS_ ** **Titans,** **_2264_ **

Susan doesn’t recognize the call signature, just that it comes from someone close (but not directly related to) the Interstellar Alliance. She realizes she probably should have asked, but she was too busy being thrown off by the weird fairy tale and the fact that her crew now thinks that she can predict the future.

She’s off her game - only a little, but still off, and maybe that’s why she doesn’t immediately respond - positively or negatively - when  _ Garibaldi _ , of all people, appears on screen.

  
“Look, Ivanova, don’t hang up,” he says quickly. “I know we’re not on the best of terms, and I wouldn't be calling you if there was any other way. But Talia’s alive.”


	11. Broken Chords and Unnamed Cries

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which everyone has their own two small pieces of the puzzle and no one can see what's coming.

**_Resistance Base, 2264_ **

Lyta hasn’t cut her hair in months. It’s gotten so long—laughably long, and she never used to wear it like this—but she keeps it all pinned up (locked up) on top of her head.

She used to wear it that way for Psi Corps—it was easier keeping up with all of the uniform regulations when she barely had any hair to take care of at all. It grew out, little by little, as did her defiance for them. Now, she sits at the head of that defiance, and she still feels like something’s off, like she’s doing the right things in the wrong skin.

On Babylon 5, everything had been so direct for her. She knew her purpose. When she left with G’Kar, she had nothing but purpose. But knowing  _ herself _ —  


“Lyta?”

She remembers when Lennier’s voice used to be soft and gentle. It’s still soft, perhaps even because she can tell that he’s making an effort not to disturb her, but it hasn’t been gentle in a long time.

Perhaps it wasn’t even gentle before. Perhaps that’s just her memories, trying to find something positive in all of this, but now, Lennier is nothing but contrast - in action, in word, and in general  _ feeling. _

She reaches up for the three biggest pins that hold her hair up. She pulls them out, letting her hair fall down her back. It doesn’t help much, but for the moment, she feels like she has a little more space. “Sorry, Lennier. I was just thinking. What is it?”

It’s so easy for her to open up people’s minds to herself now, but she hasn’t done anything like that since she left with G’Kar. He taught her patience, and while nothing could bring her inner peace, she learned to quiet herself down enough to where the part of her that is touched by the Vorlons, always burning and angry.

“More plans,” Lennier tells her, then makes a small gesture to ask for permission to sit. Lyta nods. “You miss her, don’t you?”

Lyta smiles, but she knows it doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “You and I had a deal,” she says, friendly but firm. “We don’t talk about those types of things. It’s what makes us such good workmates. You told me that yourself.”

Lennier nods. “Perhaps a reprieve would be good,” he says, and there’s just a flicker of the warmth Lyta associates him with in there to give her pause. “There’s plenty to think about. Perhaps letting someone share the burden might benefit all of us.”

Lyta finds herself grinning in spite of herself. “Alright, but fair’s fair. You have to talk too.”

There’s a pause before Lennier nods. “You drive the hard bargain.” He trails off.

“ _ A  _ hard bargain.  _ A _ ,” whispers Lyta, as gentle as she  can.

“A hard bargain,” he says. “Alright, I’ll go first - no, it’s only fair. I was the first to ask the question,” he says when Lyta tries to protest. “Years ago, I swore myself to Delenn’s side because I swore myself to the good. I swore myself to my place. My place was at her side, and it was good. And then I lost—” He trails off and looks down at the table, then continues speaking. “—I lost sight of what was important. She was a person and an idea and my purpose, and it was too much on one person.” He pauses for the smallest bit of time, just to denote that this was the most important part of his confession, even though it was buried within everything he’d said before: “And she did not love me back.”

Without thinking, Lyta reaches out and takes Lennier’s hand.

Then she thinks better of it. Before she can stammer out an apology, he covers her hand with his other shakier one. “You forget that I’ve gotten pretty used to human customs,” says Lennier quietly.

“I’m sorry,” whispers Lyta. He shakes his head. He doesn’t want her apology, sentiment or not. She changes gears. “Why here? Why the telepaths? Why me?”

Still holding her hands, Lennier meets her eyes. “Because your struggle is everything I’ve learned about good, love, and freedom, and I’ve done enough to Sherid—bad things. It’s the least I can do.”

Lyta smiles a little, tears welling up in her eyes. “Sometimes I wonder if this is the right way to do it, if there’s a better way. I haven’t been able to find one.”

“Me either.” Lennier looks down at the table again, and Lyta wonders how, without any direct eye contact whatsoever, Minbari always manage to make her feel like they’re waiting on her.

“I feel better when Talia’s here,” says Lyta. Lennier bows his head.

“Your gift is large,” he says, after a moment. “I do not know very much about telepaths, but I know that your gift is larger than everyone can fathom. If you needed, could you speak to her, whatever the distance?”

It’s not something she hides, but it’s not something she’s been forthcoming about, particularly because it’s a level of intrusion most people can’t fathom ( _ ironic _ ) and because the only person she’d even consider using it on would be Talia, who, as many were concerned, was dead.

As most were concerned, she never existed at all.

Lyta nods.

Lennier looks pleasantly surprised. “Then why wouldn’t you—”

“She knows me too well,” says Lyta. “She’s going to try to stop what we’re doing.”

“You have to tell her at some point,” says Lennier.

Lyta is quiet for a moment before she answers, a move she realizes is more Minbari than she’s ever acted. “If Talia doesn’t know, then it’s not quite real to myself, yet.”

“Look up,” says Lennier, and Lyta looks over at him sharply but finds no evidence that he knows that she’s about to cry for the first time in months.

The atmosphere of this planet is copper, but the recent dust storm makes it look even more so. Lyta spends little time on Earth, though that’s where most of the action is taking place. She spends it on bases like this, planning, trying not to listen (because she could) on the telepaths on the ground, running in and risking their lives.

It’s too much of a risk to lose her mind, or worse—let it fall into the wrong hands. It’s a thought that weighs on her, and behind it is something she wants to dwell on even less—that maybe, possibly, Talia is right, and no one should have this kind of power.

She does not allow herself to think of herself in such terms.

“It looks a little bit like a sunset, doesn’t it?” asks Lyta. “I mean—I guess you haven’t spent much time on Earth either.”

“I’ve seen pictures, but I know the real thing cannot compare,” he tells her.

They take in the sight for a little while - scorched sky, in all its beauty.

“On Minbar,” begins Lennier. “There’s something that happens when the light is just right - it hits the crystals, and the whole world seems to dance with brilliance. It is something unlike everything I have ever seen, but one doesn’t realize it while there. It’s something that happens every day.”

“I’d like to remember the last time I saw a sunset on Earth,” admits Lyta. “I bet it was really something. Not that there was a lot of time in the Corps for such things.

“What about sunrises—do they look the same?”

“Yes, and no.” Lyta thinks. “I mean, one’s the reverse of the other, but the colors are nearly the same in that - well, I guess they’re never the same.”

“I have a differing opinion than Byron did,” says Lennier lightly. “I don’t think you’re a willow tree. I think you’re more like one of those—sunrises.”

“Or sunsets?”

“It’s more pleasant to think of you as a beginning, I think.”

Lyta laughs. “Does this make you the light dancing on the crystals?”

Lennier looks thoughtful. “I think I always felt more at home when it was dark.”

“Space must have been nice, then.”

“If we were meant to be comfortable all the time, I think things would have turned out much better for us, perhaps.”

“Or worse.”

Lennier turns back toward the sky. “Well, we’re flying tomorrow, and we’re looking at this now. We may take comfort in that.”

Because he doesn’t fully understand what it means - and because he is now just as hard as she is - Lyta rests her head on his thin shoulder.

* * *

_**Alliance Shuttle W75R55, 2264** _   


"Let me drive." Garibaldi and Ivanova are cramped into a shuttle way, way too small to support the shitstorm of history the two of them have between them—a month of resources (but the two of them know how far that can stretch in wartime) and nowhere near enough space to fully stretch out.

It's about as attractive as morning breath.  


"No." The vehemence is still in Ivanova’s voice, but he's gaining on her, he can tell. "Coffee will fix it."

He doesn’t want to get in an argument like this with her. It’s going to imply that he cares way more than both of them are comfortable with (and also in a way that’s untrue—he still hasn’t seen Ivanova in years and knows that she hates his guts for a damn good reason). "You had coffee earlier. You're exhausted."

"Yeah, like you slept last night either."

That makes him fall silent. It's been a while since he's been at the other end of no-bullshit truth he's used to telling.

He sneaks a look over at her, and she’s making that face where she’s fighting with herself—not over whether or not to speak, because she’s always had a problem holding her tongue. Maybe it’s over what she’s going to say?

Ivanova sighs, defeat (or maybe just exhaustion) mixed with frustration. “How do you even know your intel is accurate? It’s not like we were looking for her.”

“I was.”

She sighs that sigh again, softer this time, more dangerous, and he doesn't even want to try to think about the nerve he hit, because there are so many already. “You know what I mean. There was a war. People were  _ messing with our heads _ . We were divided, and—”

“We were dying.”

Ivanova’s face goes as cold as he feels. This isn’t going anywhere.

“Look, we’re no good at saying sorry, so let’s just not do it.”

“No need,” Ivanova agrees curtly.

“I’ve received so many false alarms over the years about her that I’ve almost stopped listening. But this one—” Ivanova’s eyes are on him, glinting beads of light in the dark. They’re running minimal power—old habits, neither of them know the shit they’re getting into or how long it’s going to take. He doesn’t want to know what she told her ship, though he imagines it could have been anything, since both of them are heroes of war. “I have an arrangement with Lyta Alexander.”

“I’m thinking I should be surprised, and yet—”

“It’s a business arrangement.”

“She’s doing business during an all-out war?” Ivanova almost laughs, but it comes out as pure contempt. Garibaldi finds himself wondering—because for once, he doesn’t know—who’s more calloused.

However, they’re talking about the fucking asteroid storm that Lyta Alexander has become, so for a minute, he slips back into the lunch gossip that they used to share. “You didn’t hear about the shit she pulled on Babylon 5?”

“I tried not to. It couldn’t have all been true.”

“I was there. Shit got weird.”

“Weird for Babylon 5.”

Garibaldi nods. “Yeah. And before she left, we had an agreement - a favor for a favor.”

“A favor having to do with Talia?”

“No. I help with the war. She helps with a personal matter.”

“A personal telepath matter.”

“Talia never came into it.”

“You’re gaining nothing by dragging this out.”

“Look, Lyta and I communicate via a secure channel that changes every month. It’s not always with Lyta, and the calls come at all hours of the night. I got one from a human via a Minbari signal.”

“So Lyta has Minbari helping her. That’s—unconventional, but Minbari are like that. And I sure as hell wouldn’t put it past Sheridan.”

“Sheridan would have told you, though.”

“Maybe. He was trying to keep me out of another war at my request.”

“The person knew things that only Talia would know. She knew how to get in touch with me using Lyta’s method, and she spoke fluent Minbari—I had to get it decoded.”

“Lyta doesn’t speak Minbari." She doesn't have to, especially with all the telepaths switching to talking only in each others' heads. Creepy.  


“Yeah, like I said, you should have been on Babylon 5 when she was talking only in your head the whole time.”

“How did you know she was human?”

“There’s some stuff you’re never going to hear a Minbari say, human nuances, stuff only we said on Babylon 5. That means she was on Babylon 5, and she also brought you up specifically.”

“The only person who would have known all of that would have been—this child, this child that Talia and I ended up sending to the Minbari because she didn’t have a place—”

“That Beldon girl.”

Ivanova rubs her forehead. "This is so complicated. Why is she in this?”

“She knew stuff that only Talia would know.”

“I always thought of Alisa as safe on Minbar. I never considered that she’d want to be part of the revolution or that she’d even really  _ left _ the planet—stuff like what?”

“This joke I told her one time to cheer her up. Something about you battling with your garbage disposal.”

Ivanova goes very still. When she opens her mouth again, she sounds pained. “Whatever took Talia over would have known everything she knew.”

“Maybe. What the hell could she possibly have to gain from us specifically?”

“She could have Alisa—though, again, I don’t know why she’d care. I’m so sick and tired of being manipulated.”

“You didn’t know any of this, and you still got into the ship, no questions asked.”

“It’s Talia.” Ivanova clears her throat, then gets up to curl up in the crawlspace in the back. “Take controls. I’m getting too damn old to sleep in a pilot’s seat.”

It’s been a while since Garibaldi’s had control over a ship like this—one not for leisure. It feels weird and rusty. Or he’s old and rusty.

Ivanova yawns. She’s never tried to hide that kind of thing, always let people know where they stood with her. “Why’d you beat around the bush so much?”

“I wanted you to understand why I called you.”

“I figured you’d become a lot of things over time. I didn’t think that you would have become a schmuck.” 

Some time passes—he’s not sure how long, and that’s another thing that hits him. He’s back in space, with the perception shitstorm that comes along with.

It fucks with him a little. It’s the same kind of trance shit Bester used to use on him, except there aren’t any telepaths around, so he doesn’t have too much to worry about—as far as he knows. 

It’s Ivanova’s voice that brings him out of whatever he’s been in.

“Honestly, if someone cares enough to use Talia as a weapon against me, I might actually just hop out an airlock and be done with it,” she mumbles, too far gone between sleep and wakefulness for him to ask what the hell that means. He guesses her parents could have become even more of a sore point over time.

She’s also, half-conscious, still managed to hit the nail on the head—he feels the same way.

* * *

_**Babylon 5, 2259** _   


“Susan,” Talia half-gasps, half-wails, desperate, cracked open with need, as Susan works her tongue against her, and Talia’s already brought Susan off twice—once on her couch (relief) and then again against the wall in the doorway to her bedroom (reassurance in the face of desperation)—but she squeezes her thighs together anyway because God, it feels so good that she’s almost silenced the guilt-voice in the back of her head, and she’s so terrified but gratified, and it’s nearly too much—she closes her eyes against the overstimulation—thought and word and smell and sound and tingle and burn.

She’s also pretty sure that she’s only inches away from falling off her bed altogether.

She feels pressure on the back of her head, and it takes her a few moments to realize that Talia’s up on one elbow, eyes still shut but reaching for her, pulling at her hair, pulling her up.

“What?” asks Susan, irritated somewhere behind her basal desire to  _ touch _ (so close, and she hasn’t done this in so long, and it’s so hard to find the right angle), but it doesn’t come across that way. She breathes the word out and realizes she’s been holding her breath. “What’s wrong?”

Talia’s still holding onto her hair, and it sends a shiver through Susan, and she finds that she misses Talia’s hand there after she lets go.

“Look at me,” whispers Talia, and Susan doesn’t understand how Talia gets more disarming the more vulnerable she is, to the point that Susan doesn’t realize that Talia’s moving her above, settling Susan’s hand between her legs, pulling Susan down so that her arm is looped behind Talia’s neck. It puts them very close together, and Susan adjusts herself, resting herself for just a moment against Talia’s forehead, and Talia makes a sound that’s pure need, kissing her, ignoring that Susan’s hair is falling all over her face.

(It seems to isolate them, shield them from a world too harsh for something like this to exist.)

Talia reaches back over her shoulder for Susan’s free hand and grips it tightly to the point of painful, but Susan needs that right now. She needs some kind of anchor that’s going to keep her present, because all of this is so damn unreal, still, now, even as she slides her fingers inside and Talia’s hips are jerking, and the hand that isn’t cutting off circulation to Susan’s behind her neck is on Susan’s breast, and Susan’s rocking against her own hand, rocking against and inside Talia, slow burn building between her thighs even as she realizes that Talia’s about to come.

She’s following what Talia says, staring at her, and Susan’s been in this type of situation before, looking at someone as they’re somewhere else, somewhere pure sensation and—yes, even pure emotion sometimes—but Talia’s looking straight at her—not past her, not through her—and she comes that way, both eyes open, staring at Susan in a way that’s so damn profound that Susan kisses her again, gratuitously, hard and dirty, because she doesn’t know what else to do.

Talia smiles against her lips with a freedom Susan’s never seen on her face before, a freedom that Susan finds looks at home on Talia’s face. “Does your arm hurt? I’m so sorry.”

Susan shakes her head. It’s not a lie. Her arm’s gone to sleep, but Talia lets go, slides sideways and pulls Susan down beside her. Susan’s taller, but Talia slides up, letting Susan nestle in the space between Talia’s neck and shoulder. On their sides, Susan spreads her legs instinctively, and Talia slides a knee between, but her fingers settle on either side of Susan’s clit.

Susan closes her eyes and hums. She has an indulgent thought, for a moment, about time travel and Zh’a’dum and transcendent beings, and thinks that maybe the answer to—whatever—is something simple like this, being driven mindless and surrounded by comfort that does not ask anything in return.

“Did you think I’d forgotten?” murmurs Talia. She kisses the top of Susan’s head, fingers sliding slowly, lazily, with no hint of the desperation she’s shown before. “You sound beautiful, you know.” Susan snorts at that, a snort that quickly turns into another moan when Talia swirls her fingers just so. “You don’t believe me?”

Susan doesn’t know how to answer that, just spreads her legs wider. “I think you do too.” She hums again, a tiny hum as Talia slides her fingers inside, just for a moment. “I didn’t think you’d be so loud.”

“Yes,” says Talia, slipping her fingers inside again. Her tone is straightforward as anything, but she’s got that wicked smile on, that wicked smile that Susan’s only really seen in flashes until now. “I think we’re both grateful that you get the best walls in the station.”

Susan can feel her fingers again, so she slides her hand up Talia’s arm, the one connected to the one that’s touching her, touching her so good, and pushes her hair out of her face. Talia closes her eyes at the contact, leans into Susan’s hand, and Susan suddenly wonders how often Talia gets to touch people. She’s not isolated by choice, like Susan is, and even Susan gets to roughhouse with her coworkers after work. Talia’s just not allowed.

Talia’s picking up the pace now, slow circles around her clit, touching her inside, and Susan wonders just how much experience Talia has with women—or if she’s just an open book in Talia’s eyes. Susan pushes her hips into Talia’s hand and draws her hand up and down Talia’s back. She feels it when Talia shivers, brings her hands to Talia’s breasts as she kisses her, long, slow, and the panic voice has started up again in the back of Susan’s head—Talia hasn’t read her yet—she knows she hasn’t, but this has to be difficult for her, and Susan—

Susan finds herself almost wanting it, as stupid as that is, wants Talia wrapped around her mind the same way their bodies are now, to touch her in a way that comforts better than she’s doing now, because Susan doesn’t understand what Talia’s been through, but she’s trying her best.  


Talia’s stroking her now, long, slow, even, and Susan’s going to come soon, but it’s not urgent. She breaks from the kiss and buries her head in Talia’s neck, moans quietly as she tries, as much as she can, to touch Talia as much as possible, and Talia’s starting to make that breathy noise again, so Susan slides her hand between Talia’s legs.

Talia chuckles, even as she opens her legs wide. “Don’t you go on duty in five hours or something?”

“I can’t stop touching you,” says Susan, half out of pure honesty and half because she wants to help, wants Talia to know that she doesn’t want her to be isolated—she’s just scared.

She’s right, in any case (she usually is). Talia comes, small but surprising and sudden.

“God,” says Talia, half-moan, half-joy. “You’re beautiful, you know that? You’re so beautiful.”

Susan comes quietly but intensely, biting into Talia’s collarbone. She’s apologizing even before she pulls her mouth away.

Talia’s shaking her head. “No one’s going to see it. I don’t mind it.”

Susan kisses the spot, emboldened suddenly by the thought of a secret between them, something that is just hers, just theirs. “Roll over.”

There’s that wicked smile again—has her lipstick really managed to stay on this whole time? “You’re insatiable,” says Talia. “I’m flattered, but I’m exhausted,” she says, drawing out her vowels in a way that’s way more attractive than it should be, but obeys.

Susan’s tired too, but there’s a hint of playfulness in Talia’s tone that has Susan wondering just how long they could be at this.

She fits herself along Talia’s back instead, wrapping her arms around her. Talia tangles their legs together. “Me too,” says Susan, and Talia relaxes into her as the panic-voice begins again, quietly for now, but it won’t remain that way.

Talia takes Susan’s hand from where it’s resting on Talia’s waist and squeezes it, pulls it closer to herself. “I’ll put my robe back on before bed. Touch, you know.”

She’s never asked Susan for anything, but Susan still finds herself pulling up to search Talia’s face. There’s no hurt, no implicit suggestion. She can’t bring herself to thank Talia for understanding. “Is it hard to keep from hearing me?”

“I always want to hear you,” says Talia gently, “but it’s alright. A little tiring, but I don’t think that’s just from this.”

Susan laughs out loud. Talia leans back into Susan and sighs. “We won’t move yet, though.”

“No,” murmurs Talia. “Not yet.”

* * *

**_[Undisclosed, 2264]_   
**

_ Not yet _ .

Except she really is dreaming. Talia comes to now, a stupid mix of lascivious and sad. That combination shouldn’t be allowed to exist.

She rubs her eyes (she’s  _ tired _ , can’t get enough sleep these days without waking up in a panic or having restless, slightly embarrassing dreams about a past that, for all it’s worth, could never have existed) and looks around. Today, she’s fallen asleep in their makeshift medical quarters. Most of the patients are asleep, which means she’s probably picked an alright time to doze off. The only person awake in the room is Clarity, who’s restocking like the Telepath War’s coming to a head right now.

_ You alright, Zima? _

Clarity specifically uses the pseudonym instead of an identifying thought. Talia, of course, has one of those too with the rest of the telepaths. The children tend to use some kind of lady dressed in white, with some kind of glowing (sometimes healing) energy. The adults tend to think of her more as a moss-covered rock, a slippery refuge in a place that’s cool and calm. She’s not sure how Clarity thinks of her. Talia thinks of Clarity as ice, sharp and precise. The others’ thought names for her vary very little. It’s something that Clarity has done on purpose, to keep people from knowing too much about her.

Clarity offers Talia the same luxury.

_ Fine. Just tired. Did I disrupt anything? _

_ No, just looked uneasy. _

She goes back to folding linens, and Talia, for several reasons that definitely included a need to not be alone with her head and her past right now, doesn’t stop the conversation there.  _ You always seem to be around when I wake up _ .

It’s a truth that she realizes while she’s transmitting the thought—Clarity’s always waking her up. But even when she doesn’t sleep in her quarters, the woman seems to be bustling around doing something when she wakes.

Clarity doesn’t miss a beat.  _ We’re safer when you’re well. _ But she sets aside the linens and leans her head toward the door. Talia follows her outside.

“I don’t mean to be creepy,” Clarity tells her out loud (another way she protects Talia’s privacy) when they have a door between them and sick bay.

“You were with the Corps for—how many years? The bar’s set pretty high,” says Talia, a faint playfulness coming into her voice.

Clarity nods, pursing her lips. “Fair enough.” Then, she continues, something Talia wasn’t expecting at all. “I’m a P8, for what it’s worth. Not good enough for Psi Cops, but I have a certain—businesslike quality about me. They had me doing espionage. For the most part, I never got physically involved with anything happening. I thought it gave me a certain distance.” She trails off, furrowing her brow as she searched for what best to say.

“But minds are very intimate,” prompts Talia.

“The most intimate,” Clarity nods. “You can keep the guilt at a distance, but the truth’s the truth. I couldn’t look at myself. That’s when I started working for the resistance, and while I was there, I saw one of the pieces of intelligence I helped with be used to kill a child.”

There’s silence where neither of them know what to say. “I’m sorry,” Talia finally tells her. “It’s hard to be part of a system and not know—just not know how anything’s going to work out.”

“I won’t leave the kids,” Clarity says firmly. “They’re the only good thing left in this world. I believe this. I’d be willing to bet you do too.”

Talia exhales, smiling. “You know, you have this way about you—you say that, and it makes me realize that I’m nowhere near as cynical as I probably should be.”

“You believe there’s some of us out there worth redeeming.”

Talia thinks for a moment. “I do.” Then she adds, “I think I am.”

Clarity’s eyelashes are long, her eyes quiet and amber and steady in the low-lit hallway. “We might have to do something unredeemable to win this war.”

Talia can’t bring herself to answer  _ that _ . “Thank you for telling me that much of your story. It’s safe with me.”

“I know,” Clarity answers. “I’ve seen how good you are at keeping secrets. I just figured they weren’t the kind that would help us.”

“I was a commercial telepath, P5. Did some criminal justice.”

“So you worked as a Corps P5. What’s your real rating?”

The hallway they’re standing in is bare—walkways are always kept free in case someone manages to find the base in the middle of the night. So, Talia closes her eyes and focuses on her hair, still in a tight, tight ponytail at the back of her head.

She pretends it’s more effort than it actually is, but she manages to raise her hair straight up, then to each side, then back down.

When she opens her eyes, Clarity’s smiling.

“That’s pretty fucked up.”

“I’m here because I messed up one time, and I’m not going to do it again,” Talia says, crisper than she intends.

“Look,” says Clarity, “if you ever have to leave to  _ do something _ , I just want to let you know that I’m here and will keep them safe while you’re gone.  _ However long _ that might be.”

Talia can’t ever see herself leaving this place—it’s not even something she’s thought about. The thought gives her chills, because of course she’s going to have to leave at some point. Right? “Understood,” she says. Then, because there’s a small whiny in her head, nervous electricity in the air, she turns around and starts to run.

Clarity’s already halfway down the hall.  _ Who the hell found us? _

Talia’s already scanning the sky.  _ Only humans, not Minbari _ . Then, privately, she adds.  _ Alisa? _

Alisa’s running toward them, trying to get in range so she can speak to Talia.  _ Humans, only humans _ .

There’s hesitation in her voice.

They’ve done this drill many times. Clarity’s running to secure everyone else. Talia and Alisa are running toward the problem. There are no arguments. They’re the first line of defense. Talia’s finished with others fighting her battles.

The lift’s a model from the turn of the century -it’s way too slow. Talia emerges with Alisa waiting for her, and Alisa projects the thought, but Talia’s already realized it.

_ She's here. _


	12. I Can See It Coming from the Edge of the Room

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She looks like a shell - hollows under her eyes on skin that used to be so pale and flawless, hair dark, broken, and tight where it used to look like silk spun perfectly into place. Her hands are bare, and she dresses plainly, forgettably: dark pants, boots, a dark vest over a blood-red sleeved shirt. There's something ragged about her now, something tough and hard.
> 
> And damn if she still wouldn’t turn his head walking down a hallway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe it's been a year. My harddrive got messed up, and I lost five months of work. This is my attempt to begin to rectify the mess.
> 
> Thanks to all those who have commented on former chapters. You were the ones who got me up out of my deletedwork!despair and convinced me that it was still worth writing. And do enjoy. :)

**_[Undisclosed], 2264_ **

No one can say anything.

If he’s blunt - and Garibaldi’s seldom been anything but, especially with himself - this is all a goddamn fucking mess, and who knows the levels of telepathic fuckery that would have to go down - that in all probability could have gone down - to make up a scene like this?

Susan, who’s standing there looking like she’s not even there, like she’s transported herself a million miles away. If she’d been anyone else - if he didn’t know that she was still capable of fucking him up, even in this state - he’d have slapped her out of it, tried to draw her back here.

Alisa Beldon, fully an adult even though he can tell from the look in her eyes that she’s still wet behind the ears. Even he can recognize that she wears the style of the Minbar, even if it’s a leatherlike version, dark and muted. Probably the healthiest out of all of them, and even she carries that air of mystery, of _secrets_ , that he can hardly bear to stomach.

And Talia…

 _Talia_.

She looks like a shell - hollows under her eyes on skin that used to be so pale and flawless, hair dark, broken, and tight where it used to look like silk spun perfectly into place. Her hands are bare, and she dresses plainly, forgettably: dark pants, boots, a dark vest over a blood-red sleeved shirt. There's something ragged about her now, something tough and hard.

And damn if she still wouldn’t turn his head walking down a hallway.

Even if he’s not sure who exactly this is, he knows enough to know that she has the edges of a prisoner of war. Her eyes and features are sharp and dark where they used to be pale and imploring. He’d bet almost anything that her hands are calloused now where they used to be smooth, that the loose material hides new muscles on her svelte figure. That would make sense - there’s no way anyone goes through what she’s gone through and comes out exactly the way she has before (and he’s not even sure _how_ \- death of personality’s reversible, but for all he knows, she left and went back to Psi Corps; it’s not like they wanted anything to do with her after she’d gone).

Even in this state, she looks so beautiful.

They all look like they’ve been to hell and back. The shady, run-down foyer of wherever the hell they’ve been led to on this weird planet only goes to emphasize that.

He has the remark on his tongue, something smart about how all of this is so awkward, something funny, something that’ll also double as him confirming that this is himself right now in this unreal situation, but here’s the kicker: the dark-haired woman that’s supposed to be Talia - the one that he threw caution to the wind and an infinity of history that’s occurred in just a few years for - speaks first.

“We should start out by making sure that everyone’s who they say they are. I can’t see how any of you would want me to scan you, so Alisa can do it. She’s quite proficient. If you have an alternative means of proving your identities, let me know, and if we find them satisfactory, those will do as well.” She sounds breathless - is he imagining it?

He can almost hear Susan swallowing next to him. “I will not be scanned,” she says quietly, firmly, dangerously. “I think Garibaldi would also not mind if we figured out a way around that.” She looks at him.

“I think both of us have suffered quite enough at the ends of telepaths,” he says.

Talia’s eyes narrow. “Same here,” she says, and _oh_ , there’s venom in that. Where did she learn how to do that? What the hell happened to her? “Well, I’m all ears. Anything I tell you between the time you met me and the time I died could have been Control, so I’m not sure what I’ll be able to say to appease your suspicions.”

“You called us here,” Susan points out shortly.

“ _I_ called us here,” Alisa corrects. “I sensed both of them coming,” she offers, and Susan shoots her a look of slight surprise - Alisa’s a very strong telepath then. “It seemed like them, even from that distance. And they wouldn’t have come here if they hadn’t believed what I sent.”

Talia’s looking at him. “It’s a shame that you didn’t speak to Lyta about this, Mr. Garibaldi - she would have vouched for me completely.”

Hearing his name in her voice - which still has the same musical quality to it, the same elegance and lilt - is painful relief.

“Lyta?” asks Susan. “What does she have to do with this?”

“You have the arrangement with her, don’t you?” Talia asks him. “She’s going to contact you any moment now, to make sure that you’ve made good on your deal. You provide her with the resources she needs, and she removes whatever Psi Corps has done to your head.”

“If that were true, it’d be confidential, and you wouldn’t be able to know,” Garibaldi tells her, and he doesn’t mind lacing his own words with his own string of venom.

“She didn’t have to tell me directly,” Talia replies. “She told me enough. The rest just...made sense. Congratulations on your newfound wealth, by the way. And on your nuptials."

“We thought you died,” Susan interrupts. Blunt - it stings.

But Garibaldi’s looking at her like he knows her wavelength, with the beginning sparks of understanding. “Is Lyta the reason for this? Did she bring you back?”

“Lyta’s the reason she died in the first place,” hisses Susan.

“I mean, that’s not entirely true--” It’s Alisa, trying in vain to get a handle on all of the emotional thoughts in the room.

“That’s enough,” says Talia. She’s not expecting it to work, but everyone’s staring at her with respect and just a little bit of fear, so maybe it does. She exchanges a look with Alisa, and Alisa nods. “Lyta is the answer to both of your questions,” says Talia. “She’s the reason I’m here.”

“She’s the reason for everything,” Alisa adds. “And maybe the Vorlons. And maybe the Shadows.”

Susan rubs her eyes. “I’m tired. Either explain everything to us and figure out some kind of sleeping arrangement, or kill us. I’m tired of everything being so damn obscure.”

Talia turns to Alisa. She nods - they’re communicating telepathically, apparently - and goes downstairs.

“Come with me,” says Talia. “It’s a long story.”

“Yeah, what isn’t, these days?” quips Garibaldi. They follow her inside.

* * *

**_Resistance Base, 2264_ **

When Lennier finds Lyta, she’s sitting in a corner pouring over screens and readouts. She looks up tiredly when he walks in.

“Am I disturbing you?” he asks tentatively. She shakes her head and waves him in. “I see you have decided against using the chair and desk in the room.”

“Hm?” asks Lyta. “Oh, I guess I feel more productive this way.” The mess around her makes her feel more accomplished, maybe because it mirrors the layout of her mind at the moment. She frowns up at the screens again. Lennier takes a seat beside her, arranging his robes around him. “This isn’t going to work. We’re missing something.”

“Would you prefer to talk it ou—?” Lennier swallows a grin as Lyta barrels ahead. She’s in her headspace now - no one can stop her.

But if she’s here, that also means that she’s feeling a little better than she was the last time they spoke alone. That’s enough to lift Lennier’s spirits, just a little.

“—Psi Corps’ defensive capabilities are too good. We’re going to have to strike first.”

“We’ve known that for a while.”

“But we need to make that first strike count.” Lyta covers her eyes with her hands, then pulls her hands down. “I can’t believe I’m saying this, but we need more information. I’d do it myself, but—“ She pauses, just a little embarrassed.

“—but you’re our secret weapon. We need to keep you for when all of this is over.”

Lyta shakes her head. “No. I need to be there for the first strike.”

Lennier nods slowly. “Okay, so what do we need to do?”

It’s not that Lyta’s not a soldier. She’s been raised her whole life to follow rules and orders. It’s the part where she has to take command, to lead - that’s the part where she’s feeling her way in the dark.

The good thing is, the dark is where she appears to come alive.

“We need information - the kind that can only come from Psi Corps personnel. The kind that can only come from scans of personnel who know what’s going on.”

Lennier’s face is grim, understanding. “It’ll be done. Who do you have in mind?”

* * *

**_[Undisclosed], 2264_ **

Talia waits until Alisa’s finished doing whatever it is she’s doing. The young woman takes a seat at the table, and the two of them begin telling one of the most convoluted stories Garibaldi’s ever heard, and he’s heard that weird telepath fairy tale going around - even that might be more truth than fiction, he’s realizing now.

Talia’s apparently been gone a year, before Lyta had facilitated the return of her personality. Their powers have been augmented, though Lyta has far better control over hers than Talia’s. Talia hadn’t died, though that had been Psi Corps’ intention. The fact that she survived may well have been due to her abilities.

Subverting the Corps is a hard feat. That’s one of the parts about this that doesn’t feel right. But then again, if the Vorlons were involved, things tended to get wonky.

She’d managed to hitchhike her way out here, knowing that she had to start over from scratch. She had no identity, no name, just vaguely looked like some dead woman.

By the looks of it, Susan’s in the same place he is - far from convinced, but the story’s plausible enough because of their own experiences that they’re willing to entertain the assumption. Then again, the fact that Talia’s sitting in front of them, managed to get them alone, and hasn’t tried to kill them yet also goes to support what she’s saying.

“—but I remember the customs you’re used to as well as have developed my own code of sorts. I will never read you without your permission and have held myself back from you now, besides confirming that you were in a ship full of humans when you arrived - a level of knowledge that Alisa also possesses, as she is a regular high-level telepath.”

There’s a moment of silence, and then—

“Kosh _what?_ ”

“What do you mean, Lyta has that power? Is that power even possible?”

“If the Vorlons were able to do that, then what did Jason do to you?”

Talia holds up her hands. “The first and most important thing: do you understand the facts as I’ve stated them?”

“Yes,” says Garibaldi, uncharacteristically quiet but still a little suspicious. Susan just nods, looking away.

Talia looks down at her hands where they’re folded on the table. “Do you trust me?” She holds up her hand as Garibaldi opens his mouth. “Do you trust me enough to listen to me and hear out our plan?”

Still tense and suspicious, Susan’s eyes set (painfully, but she can’t think about that now) on her. “What is this place?” she asks.

There’s no point in hiding it now, but Talia still hesitates before speaking. “It’s a haven for telepaths,” she answers. “You both know that a war is brewing. It’s already happening. The only thing left is to officially wage it. We spread the word. We accept children, innocents, low-level telepaths who won’t fight and who don’t have anywhere else to go. We have telepaths who have lost their families to the Corps, who have been deemed by the Corps as too dangerous to live. If they make it here, we care for them. We are their families.”

“That’s all.”

“That’s all,” Talia repeats to Susan. She shrugs. “I’d allow you to see them, but a lot of them have suffered enough trauma for a lifetime. I think that’s something the both of you are aware of. Even Alisa has limited contact. We’re both here under false names, as are - I suspect - the majority of the telepaths here. We don’t want to compromise each other in the case that we are attacked, though I assure you that we’re very well protected. I’d appreciate your discretion.”

“Protected by what?” Susan asks, voice still tight and suspicious.

Talia points to her head. “Me.”

Jesus, it’s hard enough to believe that there’s one Lyta in the galaxy. Now there’s two?

Garibaldi looks at Susan - she’s stone-faced but not aggressive. “Fine. We believe you. But why did you call us here?”

“Well, it certainly wasn’t to tell you that I was alive in so dramatic a fashion,” says Talia. She smiles despite herself, then frowns. “Lyta and I don’t keep secrets from each other - how can we, when I owe her life like I do? But she’s readying to launch an all-out assault against the Corps, and I want backup.”

“But—that’s not within our discretion,” says Susan.

“You don’t need to participate,” says Talia, “but if she won’t tell me what’s going on, I’m going to be there to back her up. All I want from you is this: transportation to Lyta - don’t worry, when we get close enough, I’ll be able to know where she is - and enough knowledge about ship tacticals to where I’d be able to back her up if necessary. Your involvement ends there.”

Garibaldi blinks. “You want us to teach you _how to fly_?”

“How to fly _better_ would be a better explanation,” says Alisa. “She’s been learning a little in her spare time. We have telepaths who can pilot ships. They’ve been sharing their knowledge--”

“Telepathically,” says Garibaldi. He rubs his head. “This is a goddamn headache.”

“I thought my place was here, but my place is with Lyta.”

“Fighting,” says Susan. And then, with just a hint of exasperation, she adds, “Weren’t you just dead?”

“It’s not something she should do alone.” She leans forward. “Susan—” (Susan flinches at the name, and Talia almost regrets using it - she hasn’t said it out loud to her in so long.) “—no one should be waging a war on their own.”

Garibaldi’s looking between them incredulously. “Do we have to give you an answer right now?”

Talia shakes her head. “No,” she says, trying to soften her voice a little in the same way that she does when she speaks to the children. “I know it’s a big decision and that it’s a lot to take in. I can show you to some guest quarters. I’m sure you’ll need sleep, a meal, and some quiet time to make your decision.” They’re also far from trusting her. She has to know that.

“I’ll show you to your quarters,” Alisa says, carefully, but not carefully enough to keep Garibaldi and Susan from jumping at the sound of her voice. “Sorry, we’re used to being quiet around here, even though we’re all telepaths. We can talk in our heads, but also we’ve all been in hiding so long that hold habits die hard.”

Talia looks between the two normals. “Alisa or I can personally soundproof your rooms,” she reassures. “The telepaths are much farther underground, and they won’t be able to hear you, but I’m sure it’ll be reassuring.”

* * *

They nod and stand. Garibaldi walks out, followed by Susan, who stops and stands in the doorway.

Talia almost wishes she wouldn’t - even now, dark circles under her eyes, uniform rumpled, hair half-falling out of the tight bun she’s pulled it into from the side, she looks beautiful. Better than she’s remembered.

But that was yesterday.

“I’d prefer Alisa,” says Susan shortly.

It’s hard enough to get over the shock of being addressed by Susan directly. “What?”

“For soundproofing.”

That hurts - on two levels, her own and Susan’s, whose pain is leaking through the standard shields Talia keeps up when around humans. She focuses her attention on tightening hers and reminding herself that she needs to figure out a new baseline shield for when she’s around non-telepaths, especially humans.

“I understand. I’ll let her know,” replies Talia, as cool as she can keep her voice.

Too cool. Susan wilts a little under her response. “Talia, please understand. I’m happy you’re alive. Both of us are. We wouldn’t have come if - I’m - if it’s really you, you know. You have to know. I just - I almost died. And someone—” She shakes her head. Talia adjusts her shields again. “It’s too much right now. I, um, I don’t know if it’s ever going to be alright, but—seeing you alive— _Talia_.”

There’s a plea for her to help her somewhere in there, and Talia offers it, even if part of that plea is to _leave her alone_. “I heard a little about what happened,” Talia tells her, careful to keep the distance between them. “If you think the grapevine on Babylon 5 was bad, just consider how it is among telepaths.” Susan doesn’t laugh, but her face softens a little. “Know that I feel the same way.” Susan starts, and Talia shakes her head. “I mean, about you being alive. It’s a small, bright spot in all of this.”

Susan pushes a stand of that beautiful hair of hers over her shoulder. “You know you speak in her voice. Or you did, just now.”

For a moment, Talia remembers Control’s panic as she left her, how she felt and hated the sympathy she felt for the being that had violated her mind for years without her knowledge. “Yes, well, we’ve all changed.” She turns to leave. Susan might interpret that as coldness, but Talia needs to cry now, and she’s not going to trouble Susan (beautiful Susan, Susan who stepped forward when everyone stepped back and stepped back when everyone lunged forward) with this.

But maybe she can get out something else before she breaks.

“Susan, I - Talia--” Her own name sounds foreign on her tongue. “--never wanted anything from you that you weren’t willing to give. And seeing you alive now is already more than enough.” She swallows and turns around, can’t keep the choke out of her voice. “Alisa’s waiting for you in the hallway. I’m sure you have so much to talk about - her stories from Minbar are truly fantastic.”

She can’t tighten her walls fast enough - she can feel Susan’s small sob almost as clearly as she can feel her own, beginning low in her chest, burning behind her eyes.

She waits until Alisa links her thin arm with Susan’s and begins walking with her down the hallway, then Talia retires to her room and cries like she hasn’t in a long time.


End file.
